Seasons Change
by Sister Rose
Summary: Did you really think Summer would let him go? AU sequel
1. Chapter 1

**"Seasons Change"**

**By Sister Rose**

Rated R

Note: This is a sequel to my AU story "Out of Season." It picks up about four years after that one ended. It is not completely necessary to have read that piece before you read this one – but it would probably help.

All thanks for this story should go to famous99, who kept writing me prodding little notes, asking oh-so-casually what I was working on. Then she proofed it for me. Thanks, famous!

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Chapter 1

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Summer was talking on the telephone.

Well, she HAD been talking on the telephone. Until the loud motor roared up right under her living room window.

"I can't hear you any more, Seth," she said. "I'll have to call you back later after I finish tearing some fool's head off."

"Hey, I thought you were all through with the rage blackouts," Seth said.

"I can't hear you," Summer said, "and since I can't hear you, I can't do what you say. Go boss your boyfriend around, not me."

She dropped the telephone receiver in its cradle on her way to the window.

She didn't really want to kill anyone today, just maim them a little. Not so much that they couldn't work. It was a Saturday, after all. Just enough so they would remember her. She liked having the lawn maintained by someone not herself. Mowing grass was SO not her.

She looked out the window onto a pair of broad, strong shoulders wearing a thin undershirt. Mowing grass was SO sweaty, she thought. Movingly so. Movingly mowing. Mowingly moving. Hmm. Enough of that. Moving on.

So. She moved toward the back door of her house, humming. Everyone at work had been sensible for the last week, giving her no targets for a righteous ripping. If she didn't let some bile out now and then, it built up, like shower scum. She didn't need soapy residue on her soul, thank you very much, so she released her temper regularly.

Summer stopped at the door for a pair of clogs. She looked at the edges and bottoms as she slid the shoes over her toes. Were they looking a little worn? Maybe she should get a new pair of garden clogs. Or maybe not. It wasn't the best use of her clothing discount, and the only people who ever saw her in them were Seth and Luke and her dad and her stepmother. And Zach six months ago.

OK, check that. New garden clogs, first thing Monday. This pair was headed for the garbage. As soon as she finished peeling a strip of hide off a miscreant.

Summer charged through the door, letting it slam behind her. No sense in having solid-wood doors if you couldn't slam them now and then.

The slam wasn't loud enough to disturb the man wielding the string trimmer by the back door. He jumped when she tapped him on the shoulder, cutting off the string trimmer's motor as he turned around.

"Who's in charge?" she said, saving her wrath for the deserving rather than the unfortunate.

"No habla," the string trimmer operator said.

"Donde esta el senor?" Summer said slowly.

"Alla," the man said, following it with a bunch of words that Summer didn't know. That was the trouble with two semesters of Spanish. You learned enough to ask the questions but not to understand the answers. Luckily, the man pointed.

Umm. Toward the sweaty shoulders Summer had spied earlier. Score! She had always liked sweaty, working men. She could ogle Mr. Brawny Shoulders while giving him a well-deserved piece of her mind.

Summer marched toward him around the edge of her new swimming pool, the roar of the pump motor too loud for Mr. Shoulders to hear his impending doom.

She tapped him on the shoulder then moved her hands to her hips, the better to look menacing. People who are only 5-foot tall have to take every advantage of body language. She had learned that at her job, along with an assortment of other unpleasant realities about women in the workplace.

Mr. Shoulders glimpsed her as he turned around, because he turned back and made a slicing motion with his gloved hand across his throat toward the man on the other side of the pump. He turned back around and took off his gloves and his safety glasses, dropping his blue eyes to the ground in front of her.

Summer knew that pose instantly. She knew those shoulders. She knew those blue, bluer, bluest eyes. She knew every bit of that hard body intimately, including the soft, soft heart. She knew him.

"Atwood," she breathed.


	2. Chapter 2

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Summer's eyes followed Atwood's as he looked up at her, obviously stunned.

He licked his lips, nervously, before trying to speak.

Summer's ability to speak came back to her.

"If you call me Miss Roberts," she warned, "I will kick you in the shins until they are both broken and bleeding."

Atwood closed his lips.

Summer regretted intimidating him, but she couldn't stand hearing her first love, her best love, call her by the name that had driven them apart. Summer heard her own harsh breathing, in and out, in and out. Just like Atwood had … once, long ago. It was over.

Summer snapped back to herself.

"What's the meaning of all this noise on a Saturday?" she demanded.

Atwood's eyes went hooded and dark.

"I have a work order to drain the pool and scrub the surface," Atwood said, consulting a clipboard. "We're also supposed to trim the lawn edges and around any obstacles before mowing later."

Atwood offered her the clipboard. She scanned the work order and gulped. That was certainly the correct signature at the bottom.

"If this is the wrong day or time, Martinez Landscaping can come back later," Atwood said.

"No, this is right," Summer said. She hated being wrong, and she was almost always wrong around Atwood. He never rubbed it in, though. That was one of the things she liked best about him.

That and his shoulders.

And his biceps. Summer's eyes followed her thoughts down the tanned forearms covered in sun-bleached hairs to the hands that made her writhe in bed like no one else had since then. Summer blushed.

"I'm sorry for disturbing your work," she said.

"It's not a problem, ma'am," Atwood said.

Summer watched as Atwood looked carefully over her shoulder. He didn't look at the ground in front of her. She had verbally smacked him enough times that he wouldn't do that. And he didn't look down her crop top like most men would. But he didn't meet her eyes, either. Obviously, he still had issues. And she hadn't seen him in three years – or was it four? Not since he walked out on her without giving her the chance to yell at him or talk him out of it or beg him to stay.

Which she would have. She had no pride back then where Atwood was concerned. But she was stronger now. And she had noticed that there wasn't a wedding ring on the hand Atwood was using to twist his gloves into a knot.

"Come see me when you finish," she said abruptly, knowing that Atwood would take it the wrong way but unable to come up with kinder words. "I want to talk to you."

She looked around to leave and saw all the interested lawn workers, no longer working, staring at her and Atwood.

"About this contract," she blurted.

"Yes, ma'am," Atwood said. "It will be at least two hours."

As Summer walked away, she heard the pump's motor roar into action again. She should have kicked him in the shins anyway. "Ma'am," indeed. It wasn't "Miss Roberts," but it wasn't "Summer" whispered in her ear, either. Well, she had a couple of hours to find her aplomb, and she was going to start with a warm bath – cold showers were for boys – while she tried to decide what to wear for a conversation with the man who broke her heart for her own good.


	3. Chapter 3

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Summer was waiting in the kitchen when the knock came at the back door. There was no point in waiting in the living room; Atwood wouldn't knock on her front door. She got up from her Italian-style country table and walked to the door to open it.

Even after the door was open, Atwood waited.

"Come in," she said, stepping to one side and watching his big boots clomp into her kitchen. He had left his gloves and glasses outside. He used the hand that wasn't holding a clipboard to take his Martinez Landscaping cap off.

"You let your hair grow," she exclaimed. It was at least two inches long.

"Yes, ma'am," Atwood said.

"Let's make it 'Summer,' all right?"

He paused, trying it out in his head and then obviously declining to say it.

"I just want to say that I've called the office, and they have guaranteed that you'll have a different crew chief working here from now on. Ms. Martinez is waiting at the office for your phone call," Atwood said. "Please don't hold my actions against Martinez Landscaping. I won't be back. Ms. Martinez is eager to do whatever is necessary to make you happy."

"What if I need them to fire you?" Summer said.

"Ms. Martinez already has my verbal resignation, and I'll follow it up with a written one within the hour," Atwood said.

Summer stared at him. He had just given her more words than she had heard from him at any time in the first six months they slept together. She wondered whether he had been practicing for the last two hours. She wondered why he had let his hair grow. She wondered whether he ever thought about her. She wondered when he turned stupid.

"Are you crazy?" she said.

"Ma'am? I mean, Summer?" Atwood said. "Martinez Landscaping is just expanding into Newport. They need goodwill and are willing to go the extra mile for customer service."

"That's nice," Summer said. "Did you really think I wanted to talk about yard work? I don't care about that. Now sit down at the table. We have some unfinished business that I didn't want to take care of in front of every yard worker in Newport."

Atwood sat. His jeans were grass-stained and hung heavily with dirt. He had thrown a red Martinez Landscaping shirt, unbuttoned, over his undershirt with its deep sweat stains. His boots had blades of grass stuck in the edges. He carefully placed his clipboard on the table.

Summer wanted to swoon. He looked totally natural at the big table, his quiet personality blending into the kitchen. Wow. Until he sat down, she hadn't realized that she had decorated this kitchen for Atwood. She had thought it was for Zach, Atwood's hand stroked the table, appreciating the craftsmanship and the grain of the wood. She sighed a little, appreciating him.

But that didn't mean she was going to let him off easy.

"Why didn't you call?"

Oh, good grief, the lamest girly line in the whole book, and it's the first thing out of her mouth. Like he had ever called her. Like he had a telephone. Like he ever would have called her when he was leaving town. She was stupid. And mean. She wished she could sew her mouth up like a mean fish. Like a stupid fish. Like a stupid, mean fish. But Atwood was answering her.

"I thought the note said everything I needed to say," he said softly, fingers tracing the edge of the clipboard.

"Dear Summer," she quoted. "I can't stay in Newport any more. I hope you have a happy life. You deserve someone terrific. Thanks for all the time we spent together."

She paused, remembering how her stomach had hit her shoes when she saw that note, remembering the sight of the empty room, the way her life felt empty and alone when Atwood left her. She shook her head.

"You didn't even sign it, Ryan," she said.

There was a long pause, and Summer watched him gathering his thoughts. Words always came so hard for him, especially when he was talking about emotions. It was if he had to find mind pictures and describe them in a language he didn't know.

"I didn't know for sure you were the only one who would see it," Atwood said finally.

Summer knew he meant that he had been afraid he would embarrass her. Like that could ever happen.

"If you had given it to me in person, you could have been sure," Summer said tartly.

"If I hurt you, I'm sorry," Atwood said. "I hoped you would find someone else, someone who could take care of you. Someone like Seth."

"Seth's gay," Summer said.

"That's just a rumor," Atwood said.

"Not according to Seth's boyfriend," Summer retorted.

Atwood lifted his eyes to Summer's face with a question in them.

"Really," she said. "He fought it for a while, but eventually, he found someone who can put up with him, and it's not a girl. We're still friends, though."

"Thank you for telling me that," Atwood said. "I'm glad for both of you."

He scooted his chair away from the table.

"I'll make sure Ms. Martinez sends someone else to take care of your house from now on," he said. "Are you sure you don't want me to quit?"

"I want you to quit trying to leave," Summer said, annoyed. "I have a few more questions."

"Sure," Atwood said. It was the answer he always gave when he thought he had no choice. It was how Summer knew that she was bullying him too hard.

"I just want to know how you're doing," she said, with less heat.

"I'm fine, thank you," he said. "I've worked for the Martinez family since I left Newport. When they decided to expand into Newport, they asked me to be crew chief because I had worked here before."

Atwood looked up, and she saw darkness in his eyes, in addition to the little lines around them. More lines than he had when he left Newport. He was willing to talk about his work, but not about how he had been. It was pretty plain, even to a self-involved girl like Summer, who hadn't deserved a guy like Atwood when she had him, that the years hadn't been kind to Atwood.

"I almost didn't take the job, because I was afraid I might run into you," Atwood said.

Summer had always been able to read Atwood's face like a road map. Today's directions to Ryanville showed his sincerity. He hadn't wanted to hurt her, and he had thought leaving was necessary. But she had always known that. Knowing that hadn't stopped it from hurting. She had also known that she wasn't good for him. That knowledge wasn't painless, either. Despite having finally graduated from college, Summer remained convinced that knowledge wasn't the answer to life's hurtful questions.

"I asked Ms. Martinez not to send me to any jobs with the name 'Roberts' attached," he said. "I'm sorry we had a mix-up. The work order says 'Stevens.' I don't know how she got it wrong."

"Oh, that's my married name," Summer said.


	4. Chapter 4

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Summer watched Atwood's eyes shoot to her left hand. She waggled the fingers.

"Divorced now," she said. "Seth calls it my starter marriage. Zach and I got this house together and then decided we weren't really meant to be married. It lasted about a year. I kept the house when we split, because Zach hated golf and hated living so close to the country club."

"It's a nice house," Atwood said, looking around at copper-bottomed pots and pans. "I like the kitchen."

"Thanks," Summer said.

"I'm sorry about the divorce," he added.

"I'm not," Summer said. "But I am sorry about Trey."

Atwood looked another question toward her. She grimaced. She hadn't been quite ready to let him know how obsessive she was about certain things, how far she was willing to go to get her way.

"I sort of hired a detective a few months ago to look for you," she said. "He found Trey instead, so I went to go visit him."

Atwood's face was the bland mask he put on when he didn't want to reveal his thoughts. Summer charged ahead.

"It was quite the sight," she said. "No one had told me that miniskirts weren't the proper attire for prison visits. I was the belle of the visiting ward ball. Anyway, Trey wouldn't tell me anything about you, but he asked me to come back and visit him again. When I went back, he was dead and you had already had the funeral. The warden wouldn't give me any more information. If you hadn't come here today, I probably still wouldn't know where you are."

Atwood's backside shifted in his chair at that little bit of truth.

"You hurt me a lot," she continued. "And that's partly my fault. But you were really special to me, and I want to keep track of you this time. Can we do that?"

Atwood sat there, still tracing the edge of his clipboard quietly. He didn't speak. Summer knew him well enough to be quiet herself, despite the thousands of thoughts bouncing inside her head. She stilled herself and waited for him to respond.

The silence grew in the kitchen. Summer could hear the ticking of her smiling teapot-shaped clock, the one she and Zach had bought at the rummage sale while laughing about how the clock would last them through all their years of marriage and they could give it to their children and their children's children. She thought about how the clock had only needed to work for one year, with no children or children's children to worry about.

Summer thought about how Zach had been right when he accused her of still being so hung up on someone else that she couldn't get close to him. But now that someone was sitting in her kitchen and she didn't want to give him up and the ball was completely in his court and she had to keep on waiting. She hated waiting.

But she did it. Tick tock. Tick tock.

Sometimes in the past she had gotten tired of waiting for Atwood and had charged ahead like the self-involved Newport deb she had been. She was pretty sure not listening was how she had lost him last time. Well, that and making him feel like her boy toy instead of her man.

She had spent the last couple of years thinking about her mistakes and how she would fix them if she ever got the chance. This was her chance. She might have been a mindless deb at one point, but she was still Mike Roberts' daughter, and what she wanted, she got. Even if she had to wait. Tick tock. Tick tock.

"I've thought about you a lot," Atwood finally said. "I'm glad to see you doing so well. But I'm not sure it's good for us to be friends. Things haven't really changed."

"It wouldn't be like being friends," Summer said. "It would be like making friends. We were never friends. Or I would have noticed that I was using you and that you didn't like it."

Summer waited while Atwood thought about that. Tick tock. Tick tock.

"I liked it," Atwood said, raising his blue eyes to her face. "But it wasn't good for either of us."

"We could try to be friends," Summer suggested.

Summer watched Atwood's eyes flick back and forth, weighing her words. She saw him make a decision against his better judgment, perhaps sensing the feel of a trap if not the actual substance of it.

"We could try," he said deliberately, looking into her face. His eyes begged her not to hurt him. She hoped she wouldn't.

"Could we start with dinner?" she said. "I still don't cook, but I can order with the best. One of about 500 things Zach and I found to fight about."

"I'm working tonight," Atwood said, thinking. "But I have tomorrow free. And I've learned to cook a few things besides mac'n'cheese. I wouldn't mind trying this fancy kitchen."

"Give me an ingredient list," Summer said. "For you, I'll brave the grocery store."

The telephone rang, startling them both. Summer bounced over to the kitchen extension and checked the caller ID.

"It's Seth," she said. "I didn't call him back when I was supposed to."

Atwood smiled a little.

"Can't have that," he said.

Summer picked up the line.

"Can't a girl have a little privacy?"

"No, girlfriend, she can't," Seth said. "Especially since I'm bored and ready for lunch."

"No can do today," Summer told him. "I'm renewing an old …" she thought about what the right word would be "… acquaintance."

"Really? Have you seen the light and invited the Chipster back into your life?"

"Have you seen the light as I leave you on the train tracks?"

"I'll take that as a no," Seth said.

"No, nyet, nada," Summer said. She stopped for a second then looked at Atwood. She put her hand over the phone.

"OK to ask Seth and his boyfriend to join us?"

Atwood smiled.

"Do you and Luke have plans for tomorrow?" Summer said into the phone.


	5. Chapter 5

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

"So what does all this make?" Summer said as she watched Atwood dive into the stack of blue plastic supermarket sacks. He started arranging food products in interesting piles: cans on one side, produce on the other, oils and spices in the middle.

"I thought I'd make a basic salsa and some quesadillas," Atwood said. "It's pretty easy, and most people will eat it."

Summer picked up a bright lime. She squished it a little then rolled it around her counter with her palm as Atwood assessed the quality of the tomatoes she had bought. He bounced one in his hand, weighing it, then rubbed his thumb over the skin. He picked up the pack of tortillas she had bought and turned it over to read the expiration date.

He wrinkled his nose. She wrinkled her brow. Something was off here.

"Atwood," she said suspiciously, "have you turned into a foodie?"

He looked at her in astonishment, caught in midsniff.

"A what-ie?"

"A foodie," Summer said. "You know, someone who's all into exotic foods and making sure everything is just exactly fresh and in season? Someone who actually cares what kind of tortillas I bought? Someone like Seth?"

Plastic smacked the counter as Atwood dropped the tortilla package guiltily.

"No, no," he said. "These are fine. I just could have gotten you a better deal at Chicho's."

"What's that?"

"Um. It's … um … this place I work," Atwood said. "On the weekends. In Chino."

"Are you still cooking?"

"Um. Sort of," Atwood said distractedly as he dropped cilantro in a stainless steel bowl with holes in it and ran water over it in the sink. Someone had given her the bowl as a wedding present. She had thought it was an ugly art piece. "Paper towels?"

Summer handed him the plain white roll from the cabinet. She watched in fascination as he patted the cilantro dry. Atwood always knew what to do with things, real things, life things. His hands moved the cilantro to the chopping board and selected a knife. His hands weren't big, but they were capable. Capable of cooking or cleaning or creating a frenzy in her body.

Except for occasionally walking out on her, he was the perfect man.

He diced the cilantro into a small mound of shreds and moved it to a corner of the cutting board. He rinsed a tomato and started turning it into small squares.

"What's that cut?" Summer said idly.

"It's a dice," Atwood said. He didn't look up. "I like your hair."

"My hair?"

"It's shorter. And it has red stuff in it."

Summer wanted to dance around the kitchen. She settled for squiggling her plum bisque toes in her new flip-flops. Atwood had noticed her hair. He was looking at her, in between all the times when he wasn't looking at her.

"Highlights," she said calmly.

He didn't say anything else about her hair, so she didn't say anything else about it, either. Who said she didn't know when to keep her mouth shut? Seth, that's who. Summer couldn't wait to tell him exactly how wrong he had been.

She also couldn't wait for the next romantic pronouncement Atwood might say.

"Do you have a bowl?" he said.

OK, so she wasn't going to get a testimony of undying affection. She rooted around in a cabinet.

"I think Zach put them up here," she said, fossicking past the stemware and dinner plates.

"How long has Seth been dating boys?" Ryan said.

"Um, I don't know. A couple of years, maybe," Summer said, thinking about it as she closed the pine cabinet door and opened the next one. "And I don't think it's boys, plural. I think it's just Luke. Because, let's see, they got together … hmmm. It would have been after Anna left. Then Seth went into rehab. Sometime after he got out and started working at the Bait Shop and started banging that punk chick."

"Rehab?"

"It's going pretty well," Summer said. "I think he just started drinking because he hated working for his grandfather so much. I don't think it was a real addiction. I mean, sure, he'll tell you it's been 497 days and three hours and 26 minutes since his last drink, or something stupid like that, but I think he's just doing it for attention. You know Seth. Plus he gets to go to meetings and talk."

Summer turned around with a clear glass bowl in her hands.

"Is this big enough?" she said. "I have no idea what Zach left and what he took with him in the divorce."

Atwood's eyes hadn't left her.

"Is he really OK?" Atwood said intently, examining her face for truth. He had put down his knife and his tomato.

"Ryan, Seth's fine," Summer said gently. She suddenly remembered that he had a family member – maybe his mom? – who had been in rehab that hadn't worked. She set the bowl down beside the cutting board and touched his hand. "You'll see when he gets here. It's like nothing ever happened. We just don't make drinks for him."

Atwood didn't move. Then he slid his hand from beneath hers and reached for another tomato.

"This bowl will work," he said, looking down.

Summer watched him scoop up tomato pieces and drop them in the bowl. He added the cilantro shreds and started rolling the lime on the counter.

"What are you doing now?" she said.

"You get more juice out of the lime if you roll it first," he said. "Do you have a juicer?"

Summer stared at him. Was he crazy? He looked up and read that answer on her face.

"Never mind," he said, picking up the knife and slicing the lime. Citrus smell filled the kitchen as he squeezed half of the lime between his fingers. His strong, capable fingers. She watched his forearms tense as he squeezed the second half. The forearms led to a blue golf shirt tucked in khaki pants. A nice brown belt, slightly worn but well cared for, showed off his slender waist, and brown lace-up shoes matched the belt.

Everything was lower market – definitely not high end – but he looked surprisingly well-groomed and yummy, if not quite as scrumptious as he did in his dirty undershirts. Summer wondered who had been picking out his clothes for him. It had to be a woman.

She stifled the raging jealousy. Atwood was a handsome man. It was silly to think a woman hadn't snatched him up. Some slutty, trashy Chino ho with good taste in cheap clothes.

"I like your shirt," she said abruptly.

Atwood paused in his slicing of onion.

"I hoped you would," he said, chopping again. "It's like the clothes you picked out for me that one time. I think this needs another tomato."

The doorbell rang. Summer refrained from cursing at the timing.

"Seth," she said. "And Luke. You sure you're cool with this?"

"I'm good," Atwood said.

"Yes, you are," she said sincerely, then left him to stew over that while she flip-flopped across her hardwood floors to answer the door.

"Hey," Seth said, giving her a peck on the cheek as he toted in a paper bag. His whiskers scratched a little.  
"Did you shave today?" Summer said with a frown.

"No, he sat on his lazy ass in bed and watched the entire seventh season of 'Buffy' while pointing out every single character assassination and continuity flaw," Luke said, entering with a second bag and a second peck on the cheek for her. "He also had to offer commentary on which of the Slayerettes was the hottest, complete with Boob Ratings that he got completely wrong. I still say the one on the bed with Xander was the hottest."

"It was only half of the seventh season. And am I not atoning?" Seth demanded. "Am I not toting and fetching like my ancestors at the pyramids?"

"Is that not a loaf of bread and nothing else in your sack, O Minion of the Egyptians?" Luke said, peeking over the top of Seth's burden.

"Well, yes, but I still had to carry it all the way up the driveway," Seth said. "And it's not just bread. It's a loaf of nirvana from the EatSmart Bakery."

"Hopeless," Summer pronounced. "Luke, what do you have?"

"Mixings for margs," he said triumphantly. "I know what goes with Mexican food, and it starts with 'T' and ends in 'keela.'"

"Terrif," Summer said dryly. "Why don't you boys hustle your sacks into the kitchen and meet the guest of honor."

"Company?" Seth said. "You didn't mention company, or I would have cleaned up a little more."

"He won't care," Summer said.

"I care," Luke said, giving Seth a noogie in the arm. "I don't want my boyfriend looking like a homeless bum when I'm meeting a new guy. I have appearances to maintain."

Summer examined Luke's appearance as Seth winced and ducked. Luke was wearing long, ragged blue shorts liberated from The Harbour School Athletics Department and a loud Hawaiian shirt. Hairy bare legs stretched between the shorts and some elderly sports sandals encrusted with decades-old grime.

"Less talking, more walking," Summer said, shaking her head while herding Seth and Luke toward the kitchen.

Atwood was still at the counter, chopping, when they walked in. He finished his tomato, rinsed his hands at the sink and turned around as he dried them on a towel. His eyes met Luke's first.

"Hello, Mr. Ward," Atwood said.

"Atwood," Luke said, happily. "How's my favorite student?"


	6. Chapter 6

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Chapter Six

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"Fine, thank you, sir," Atwood said in his usual controlled way.

Luke was less restrained.

"Dude, how's it hanging?"

Trust Luke to always know the crude thing to say. Now Atwood was going to think her friends had no couth.

"Luke!" Summer said, giving him a little kick. Her flip-flops didn't do much damage. But her plum bisque toes hurt from hard contact with hairy shins.

"Ryan," Seth said.

"Mr. Cohen," Atwood said, nodding.

"Atwood!" Summer said, turning to kick him. She stopped herself, remembering just in time that flip-flops were still not potent weapons.

"Dude, I'm still Seth," Seth pointed out.

"It's nice to see you again, Seth," Atwood said. Still controlled. Summer's urge to scream at all of them was growing by the minute. She had thought they would all be friends, but apparently the three men in the room had to do the male dog tail-sniffing thing first.

"I wish Summer had let us know it was you," Seth said, rubbing his chin. "I would have shaved."

"I think I'm supposed to be a surprise," Atwood said.

"It's definitely a surprise," Luke said. "Atwood, dude, how do you know these guys?"

"I work for Ms. Stevens," Ryan said.

Summer refrained from screaming at him. She was doing an awful lot of refraining, and it was wearing on her.

"We were friends a long time ago," Seth said. "Then we lost touch."

Well, that was a polite way of putting it. Good thing she didn't worry much about polite.

"Atwood was my lover," she confronted Luke. "Then he left me. Now he's doing my yard maintenance, and we're all going to be friends."

She pointed to Luke and Seth.

"If either of you doesn't like it, get out."

She pointed to Atwood.

"And if you call me 'Ms. Stevens' or 'ma'am' again, to me or to someone else, in my hearing or out of it, you will not know the end of pain until the end of your days. Am I clear? Am I?"

There.

That cut through the B.S.

The men traded glances. She glared equally at all three of them during the long silence that followed.

Luke put his sack on the table.

"Atwood, do you want a marg?" he said.

"Sure," Atwood said, turning to his cutting board and bowl. "This needs a pepper."

Luke dug in his sack and pulled out a six-pack of Sprite, tequila, margarita mix, limes and salt. Seth put his sack down.

"Where's your bread knife?" he said to Summer. He looked at her face. "Never mind. I'll find it."

Summer nodded to herself in satisfaction. There. Things were working out just as she wanted. She walked to her pine cabinets for some margarita glasses. Those, she could find.

"So," she heard Seth say. "Yard work. You know, there are no superheroes who do yard work. I've been thinking about working on a comic. How does 'Yard Man' sound? I don't know. Too minty? Yard Man could wield Leaf Blower Hands for his superpower."

"Yard Man would need a sidekick," Luke said.

"How about 'Pool Boy?'" Atwood suggested. "He could have scrubbing bubbles and a giant brush."

"Yes, yes," Seth said excitedly. "And then Yard Man's Leaf Blower Hands could push their archenemies away on a sea of Pool Boy's scrubbing bubbles. Wow, those would look great in a comic, all whooshing and bubbly."

"If they didn't look totally lame," Luke said, stirring up a pitcher. "I mean, too many scrubbing bubbles, and you're talking about a toilet commercial."

"Not if Pool Boy's bubbles are a manly gray instead of a girly green," Seth said. "Like he's slightly tainted by the Dark Side of the Force, but he fights on the side of good."

"How did Pool Boy get tainted?" Atwood said.

"He fell prey to the wiles of Slut Girl in the Gazebo of Doom," Summer said, straight-faced.

"Yeah, yeah, that would totally work," Seth said, still excited. "What would that gazebo look like?"

"Probably like the one that used to live in my back yard," Summer said, bemused. She couldn't believe Seth had forgotten the gazebo after all the drama it had caused.

"Oh," Seth said, chastened, turning to Luke. "Sorry about that. I forgot."

"Whoa," Luke said, smacking Seth on the shoulder. "Not cool."

"That's OK," Summer said, still annoyed but beginning to laugh. "Maybe a comic would be the best way to handle the Gazebo of Doom, psychologically speaking."

"I don't even want to think about it," Luke said, shuddering. "Ugh."

Summer laughed. Atwood was standing there, lost, in the middle of their extended friendship and mutual memories. She didn't want him to feel like he wasn't a part of the group.

"Do you want to tell Atwood, or should I?" she said.

"You do it," he said. "I'm all skeeved."

"Holly, Luke's ex …"

"My very former ex," Luke interrupted, looking at Seth.

"Holly, Luke's very former ex, was … well, you may have noticed that this house is right next to the country club?" Summer said. Atwood nodded as he mixed cheeses and other ingredients in a new glass bowl.

"Where's the salsa?" Summer said, losing track of her story.

"It's in the fridge chilling for 20 minutes," Atwood said.

"What's that?" Summer said, pointing to the new bowl.

"It's for the quesadillas," he said.

"Do we have to wait a whole 20 minutes for the salsa?" Summer said.

"Do we have to wait a whole 20 minutes for you to finish this story?" Seth said.

Summer stuck her tongue out at him. Atwood opened the refrigerator and pulled out the salsa, setting it in front of her before popping open a big bag of chips and offering it to her. Now she just needed one more thing.

"Where's my marg?" she said.

"That's right, just drink in front of the lonely alcoholic," Seth said, thumping the lid of a Sprite before thumbing it open. "Can I have a lime wedge for this?"

"As I was saying," Summer continued as Luke sliced a lime for Seth, "this house is close to the country club. And it used to have a gazebo that was picturesque and added nada to the value of the house. What it did add was a place where gigolo waiters from the country club could rendezvous with skanky bleach blonde very former exes of Luke so that I could walk in on them. Eww. Doing things that I never thought about doing with latticework. Double ew.

"It's not a happy memory," she said. "That's when I called Martinez Landscaping to rip the tainted Gazebo of Doom out and put a pool in. The country club paid for it when I casually mentioned possible liability."

"Gross, yes," Luke put in as he poured Summer a glass, "but it totally proved I wasn't doing the bedroom boogie with that nasty piece of history, as certain people in the room implied upon occasion."

Seth looked guilty. Luke grabbed a chip and scooped it high with bright red salsa, stuffing it in his mouth and chasing it with a big swallow of margarita.

"Speaking of ancient history, why didn't you sign up for my class this semester?" he said to Atwood around crunches.

"I'm taking math this semester," Atwood said, hesitantly.

"Have you picked a major yet?" Luke said. "I can't believe you're just now starting college. You're a natural."

Summer stared at Atwood. He had enrolled in college? Without telling her? What was he taking? What was he thinking? Why didn't she know this? What else didn't she know?

"Not really," Atwood said, quietly. He turned his attention to his bowl and stirred vigorously. He obviously didn't want to talk about it, uncomfortable with being the center of attention. But Luke didn't pick up those cues.

"You really ought to think about majoring in history," he said, downing another loaded chip. "You were doing so well. You played sports in high school, right? Public schools are always looking for coaches who can teach history."

"It was just a couple of classes," Atwood muttered. "Excuse me, please."

He looked at Summer.

"Oh," she said, realizing what he needed. "Down the hall and to the right."

As he left, Summer turned and fixed her eyes on Luke and Seth. They were shoving chips and salsa at each other, threatening to spill it down shirts, laughing. She moved within inches of them.

"Listen up," she hissed, startling them. "Do not pry. Do not scold. Do not lecture. I didn't think I would have to say this or I would have said it before you got here: I have waited four years for this chance. Do not frighten him off and ruin it for me. Do not make him uncomfortable. Do not act as if you were raised by wolves. Capisce?"

Luke and Seth nodded.

Seth opened his mouth to ask a question.

"Not a word," Summer said, holding up one finger.

"Can I just ask …"

"No," she said. "No. No. Also, no. You may not. You may sit there quietly and drink your Sprite without commentary or I will remove your lime wedge and give you a new kind of wedgie."

"Hey, Atwood, want another marg?" Luke offered, raising his voice and an example glass.

"Sure," Atwood said, re-entering the kitchen. "A little one."

He moved back to the stove and got a pan down. As he cooked, Summer could see the tension in his back. He thanked Luke for the drink but barely touched it. She was afraid he would leave and not come back. Ever. She had no idea why Atwood didn't want to be questioned about college, but somehow it had been the wrong thing to say – even worse than "how's it hanging."

She had wanted the evening to be perfect. She had wanted all of her friends to be friends. Was that so wrong? Summer was afraid that somehow she had ruined her chances with Atwood. He was going to walk out the door and never come back. And it would be all her fault. Again.


	7. Chapter 7

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Chapter Seven

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Summer tried not to hover or show that she was stalking Atwood.

But she was.

She watched as Luke became giddy.

She watched as Seth agreed to drive them home, protesting that he was being used because he couldn't drink.

She watched as the two of them loaded up in Luke's maroon Jeep.

She watched as Atwood gathered dirty plates and glasses, head down and back stiff.

Then she was through watching.

"Leave those," she said abruptly. "Let's go into the living room and talk."

Atwood looked at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, then back at her.

"Really," she said. "I'll do them later."

She wouldn't. She would leave them for the housekeeper. But Atwood didn't need to know that. And she needed to talk to him. She walked toward the living room and plopped down on the overstuffed sofa. Atwood stood in the doorway, hands braced on the frame, but feet not crossing from kitchen tile into hardwood.

Oh, for crying out loud. Apparently, Atwood had decided he could come in the kitchen, but not the living area. Demarcation must have occurred, and she was going to have to coax him into sitting down before she could even begin to sweet-talk the last four years out of him. She sighed.

"Summer, it's time for me to go, too," Atwood said. But Summer noticed his hands didn't leave the door frame. He wanted to stay. He just needed a reason.

"Are you working tomorrow?" she said.

"Yeah, and I need to get some sleep." Atwood seized the excuse she had offered.

"So you could come back tomorrow night then?" she said, delicately.

"Umm … I have to work tomorrow night," he said.

"Second job?" she said, lightly. "Or third?"

He glanced at her before turning his eyes to stare at her ficus in the corner.

"Second," he mumbled.

"Do you have a third job?"

He turned his head and gave her a single nod before returning his eyes to the fascinating ficus.

"Plus school?"

He nodded again, this time without looking at her.

"So you probably wouldn't have time to talk to me again for a couple of weeks, right?"

He turned his blue eyes fully on her. He was smart, and he knew her. He had figured out it was a set of trick questions. He didn't say a word. She ignored his lack of response. He had willingly walked into the trap, and she was ready to spring it.

"So if you want to know what else I've been up to the last couple of years – besides setting a world speed record for marrying and divorcing – you need to sit down so we can talk tonight," she said.

She toed off her flip-flops onto the area rug, crossed her legs on the sofa and waited for Atwood to decide whether he was more curious or more stubborn. She was betting on curious.

After a long moment, Atwood's shoes clumped across to the green wing chair next to the sofa. Ha! She had won! Take that, Mr. I've-Got-To-Go-Too. None of that triumph showed on her face, though. Well, maybe just a little bit.

Maybe just enough that Atwood broke out a tiny grin.

"OK, you win," he said. "What do you want to know?"

"How many skanky hos you've slept with since you left me," she said promptly.

Woops.

She covered her mouth, wishing the words back in it.

But Atwood was laughing.

"One skanky ho," he said. "And one good friend. You?"

"Just the husband," she said, chagrined. "I can't believe I blurted that out. I sounded like Seth, didn't I?"

"Maybe just a little."

But he was still smiling. Summer felt hope begin to rise in her. She loved the way his mouth quirked up when he smiled. She liked the way it made his eyes crinkle, like dark blue thumbprint cookies.

"OK. Let's play a Getting-To-Know-You-Again game. I'll tell you one thing about the last four years. Then you tell me one thing. They should be related things. Like, I didn't learn to cook and you did. So. No. 1. I didn't learn to cook," Summer said.

"I learned to make tortillas," Atwood said. "And I can braid a little girl's pigtails now."

Summer was ready to stop right there and talk about that for a little while. Maybe a long while. But she forged on, afraid he would clam up again if they lost momentum.

"I learned I look like my best friend's mom when my hair is completely red," she said. "I learned going to work every day sucks."

Atwood looked curious, but he went on, too.

"I took a four-day vacation once," he said. "And I now know the toxic chemical effects of just about every pool cleanser on the market."

"Well, I've learned that being cute doesn't help when your boss is a woman," she said. "You have to get the work done. And Italy is terribly romantic in winter. Romantic enough to make you say 'yes' to a marriage proposal you should have said 'no' to."

"I've learned that if a blonde wants to drive your pickup to the liquor store, you should say 'no' unless you want to buy a new pickup," he said after a moment of thought.

"Oh, you got a new pickup," she said, stopping the game.

"Well, new to me," he answered. "Your turn."

"I've learned that when Daddy's not paying for it, I don't need as much car or as much house," she said.

Summer paused. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"I've thought about you at least once a week since you left and sometimes every day," she said, abandoning the game. "I know it was mostly my fault you left me. But now I'm stronger. And I hope smarter. I think we could make this work this time."

"I'm smarter, too," Atwood said. "Smart enough to know it wasn't your fault and it wasn't my fault. Smart enough to know this still isn't going to work, Summer."

"It could," she said. "If you give us a chance. Neither of us gave us a chance last time."

"Summer, I'm living in the nicest apartment I've ever lived in," Atwood said. "I think sometimes that I wouldn't be embarrassed to let you see it. But I would be embarrassed to let you live in it."

"I wouldn't be embarrassed," she said. "I've learned more about what counts and what doesn't. And what counts is this."

She unfolded her legs and stood up. The couch whooshed as air returned to the overstuffed leather cushions. Atwood's eyes followed her as she circled toward him, lifted his chin with a plum bisque fingertip and gently settled her lips onto his.

Atwood's mouth tasted so right. His lips were there, waiting for her, like tasting strawberry jam on warm bread, like holding hands in the moonlight, like coming home at the end of a long day.

Atwood let her kiss him long moments before he started kissing her back. It was like it had always been, so good, so good, so good.

She put one hand on his neck to draw him closer, pulling in the nutmeg scent of him, the familiar brush of his sun-toughened skin, the wisp of his sighs.

She broke away from his lips to slide her mouth to his cheek, feeling the whiskers waiting to erupt beneath as she searched for that soft, tender spot just in front of his ear. It was still there. She licked it once, twice, then blew on it gently before nibbling.

She pulled away from him as he groaned.

He slowly opened his eyes. They were sleepy and dense with desire.

"Stay the night," she said. "Be my lover again."

Atwood didn't answer. He pushed himself up from the textured arms of the wing chair, standing. He roughly captured her mouth with his own one more time, caressing her hair with his hands, then scooped her into his arms. She sighed. He was so strong. She rested her head on his shoulder, nuzzling into the warm bend of his neck. He always made her feel safe and warm.

He carried her down the hall and into her bedroom.


	8. Chapter 8

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Chapter Eight

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Summer left the icy domain of her office and walked into the heated parking lot where she had left her car.

She grimaced as her heels sunk into warm asphalt. Great. An evening spent in a bubble bath had just turned into an evening spent scrubbing heels. She tiptoed across the parking lot to where her car was waiting. She grimaced again, anticipating the heat inside, and rooted in her Prada bag for her keys.

"Ms. Stevens?" a woman said.

Summer turned.

"Yes?" she said.

"I'm Theresa Martinez of Martinez Landscaping," the woman said forcefully, "and we lost our best employee today. I want to know what you said to Ryan Atwood that made him quit."

"What?"

"He turned in his resignation this morning, after talking to you Saturday," Ms. Martinez said. "What did you say?"

"What are you talking about?" Summer said, becoming a little angry herself. Atwood would never quit a job. This woman must have made a mistake.

"I'm talking about a man who has taken four vacation days in the last four years," Ms. Martinez said. "He doesn't show up late, let alone not show up. Today he walked in the office two hours late with a note saying goodbye. No notice, no nothing. What's going on?"

"Why don't you ask Atwood?" Summer said.

"What did you say to him?" Ms. Martinez said.

"What business is that of yours?" Summer said defensively. "He works for you; you don't own him."

"He's not just my employee; he's my oldest friend," Ms. Martinez said. "We were kids together. He lived with my mom when he came back to Chino."

"Wait a minute. Are you … Arturo's sister?" Summer said.

"Yes," Ms. Martinez said, suspiciously. "How do you know Arturo?"

Summer blew a sweaty strand of hair out of her eyes.

"Can we get out of the heat?" she said, pointing. "There's a coffee shop a block that direction. I'll meet you there and we'll talk."

Summer waited for Ms. Martinez's nod and then turned on her heel – which stuck a little, spoiling the sharp turn she had intended – and walked away. She didn't really care whether Ms. Martinez joined her or not. She was having an iced mocha.

Her short skirt was ooching up her itching, sweaty legs. She smoothed it down around her hips. Hmm. Possible bulge alert. Make that a skim iced mocha.

Maybe the ice would cool her down enough that she wouldn't deck Ms. Martinez. Wow. Just one night with Atwood, and already he was rubbing off on her. That wasn't counting, of course, all the other ways he had rubbed her. And the ways she had rubbed him. Summer smiled as she walked, even in the heat. Atwood was back. Even if she was about to have to wallop his irritating boss.

At the coffee shop counter, Summer placed her order in the refreshing air conditioning and turned to find an empty, isolated table. She liked to think she had become more considerate in the past few years, and she didn't want innocent bystanders getting caught in the cross-fire. It wouldn't be thoughtful.

Summer selected a table and placed her paper cup on the thickly tiled surface. She dusted the top of her drink with nutmeg. Um. Atwood's smell. She arranged her bag at her feet and wondered whether she needed to hit the restroom for a makeup touchup. Then she decided to let it go. Ms. Martinez wasn't worth the primping.

But she was at the counter. So evidently she had decided to show up for the fight. Summer took a sip of liquid heaven and thought calm, relaxing thoughts. She went mentally shoe shopping – it was better than Xanax.

Ms. Martinez sat down.

"OK," she said belligerently. "Let's talk."

"Could you just drink a little relaxing caffeine first?" Summer said.

Ms. Martinez glared at her. Then took a long chug of … what was that smell?

"What are you drinking?" Summer said.

"Triple espresso with shots of banana and almond."

"Couldn't you just throw some sugar in gasoline?" Summer said, gaping in horror.

"I like it," Ms. Martinez said, protectively clutching her cup with bright red talons. "It makes me less inclined to commit mayhem."

"Suits me," Summer said, dropping any thought of directing the woman's attention to a more healthful caffeine alternative. "My name is Summer. What's yours?"

"Theresa," the woman said reluctantly.

"There," Summer said. "Now we're all friends and can discuss Atwood sensibly."

"Just tell me what happened," Theresa said.

"OK, this starts a couple of years ago," Summer said. Now that she was telling this story, she didn't really know how to phrase it. "I knew Atwood when he lived in Newport before. We dated some. Then he left Newport. He said something about 'Arturo's mom.' Would that be your mother, too?"

"Yeah," Theresa said. "What does that have to do with what happened today?"

"I don't know, exactly," Summer said. "Atwood was with the crew working at my house Saturday. We talked a little bit, and he came over to my house for dinner last night. When he left, he didn't say anything about quitting."

There. That was a nicely expurgated version of events. She thought of one more thing.

"Oh, yeah," Summer said. "Saturday he said you wanted his resignation, but I told him I didn't want him to quit. Why are you complaining about him quitting now if you wanted him to do it Saturday?"

"What!" Theresa exclaimed. "I told him to talk to you and to see whether you wanted him off your crew, that we would talk about it today."

"That sounds like Atwood," Summer said. "Never take the sensible route when the dramatic approach will work worse."

"Huh," Theresa said. She took a contemplative slug from her cup of sludge. "You're the one."

"What?"

"You're the one," Theresa said. "You're the one he left in Newport. You're the one he moped over for a year."

"A year?"

"Maybe more," Theresa said. She looked at Summer, and Summer had the feeling she was being weighed and found wanting. Summer had never liked being on the scales, and she didn't like being under this woman's eyes, either.

"What," she said belligerently.

"You didn't just 'date some'" Theresa said, making air quotes with her fingers. "You two were hooking up regular. Then you dumped him."

"I did WHAT?" Summer shrieked. Then she looked around. Apparently, the barrista had nothing better to do than to watch her and Theresa.

"What are you looking at?" she challenged him.

"Nothing," he said, hurriedly moving to wipe the counter at the other end of the coffee shop.

Summer huffed, then turned back to Theresa.

"OK, here's the real truth. Atwood was my first long-term love affair. I loved him more than air, but he was all hung up on the fact that he was working for my dad. I went to his apartment one day, and he was gone. No furniture left. No clothes. No directions. No phone number. Nothing. Just a dramatic little note. I hired a detective to find him, but he had no luck before I ran out of money."

Theresa put down her cup.

"OK," she said. "Here's what I know. I was living in Atlanta with my cousin. My mom called and said Ry had been living in the house for about a year, helping out with things while my stupid brother was in prison. But she said he was all depressed over some woman. So I came home, made him get out of the house some, and we started having sex again."

"Explain," Summer said tightly. She wasn't liking the sound of this. She might have to kick Theresa's butt after all. And just when they were getting to be such good friends. Too bad. Another woman wasn't going to be having sex with her Atwood.

"No, nothing like that," Theresa said quickly. Apparently she could correctly interpret an unspoken death threat. "When we were kids, just teenagers."

"Before Atwood went to prison?" Summer said. Just so Theresa would know that she knew and didn't care. Also to establish a timeline.

"Yeah," Theresa said in surprise. "Then when I came home again, it was a friend thing again. Just a hook-up thing. For a while. Then my husband and I started dating."

"OK," Summer said slowly. "Atwood told me he had a friend who took care of him. Is that you? From hooking up with the boss's daughter, he moved on to hooking up with the boss?"

"I wasn't the boss then," Theresa said. "And I haven't slept with him since I got married."

"Oh," Summer said. She had noticed the ring, because she always noticed jewelry, but in her experience – not personal experience, of course, but observational experience – wedding rings didn't necessarily indicate faithfulness. Just look at her dad. That jerk.

Summer leaned over the table toward Theresa. She felt the need to warn her. She spoke deliberately.

"OK. Here's the deal. I want Atwood back. I love him. He makes my life better. If you get in my way, I will run over you. I will do whatever I need to do. Am I clear?"

Theresa gazed at her.

"OK," Theresa said. "Here's my deal. If you hurt him in any way, I will make you feel pain you never knew existed. Your pool will be full of rats. Your lawn will be full of weeds. You will never be able to hire a housekeeper again. A mysterious termite infestation will invade your home."

Theresa leaned over the table toward Summer.

"Am I clear?"

"I think we're both clear," Summer said. She picked up her bag, stood up and tossed her paper cup in the trash bin behind her. She turned back to Theresa and gave her a bright smile.

"By the way, thanks for the great work on my new pool. I love it."


	9. Chapter 9

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Chapter Nine

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"It was a mistake not to get his phone number," Summer told Seth over the telephone. She was stretched out on her bed on her tummy, toes kicking in the air behind her while the purple moss polish dried. "Maybe I should call and make that dragon queen give me his address."

"Do you think she'll do that for you?" Seth said.

"No, but threatening her again would make me feel better."

"Summer, it's only been two days. And you know where he's going to college, so you can track him through Luke if you need to. I don't want to see you lose your eyeballs to a street-tough Chino harpy."

"She wasn't that bad."

"You just called her a dragon queen. I interpret that as not accommodating. Maybe I'm wrong."

"About so many things, Seth, most of which we don't have time to get into today."

"That's cruel, Summer, needlessly unkind."  
"Sorry."

"I understand you're testy because you gave up your virginity to a man who hasn't called back."

"A) It wasn't my virginity, not that that's any of your business, and B) how totally lame is it to be worrying about him not calling back. I mean, last time the sex wasn't good enough, he didn't just not call, he left town."

There was a long pause. Summer could hear Seth breathing on the other end, but no words were coming out. That probably meant she had shocked him. She couldn't think of any other reason for his mouth not to be running. That or he had fallen over dead.

"Hello," she said. "Are you still there?"

"Still here," he said. "Reeling a bit from the intensity of personal information and insecurity revealed in that last comment, but still here. And now that I've recovered a bit, here's a thought for you: I don't think it was the badness of the sex in the past that made him leave town last time; maybe it was the goodness of it. Maybe it scared him off.

"Also," Seth went on, "technically and specifically, you are not the only person Atwood left behind."

Oops. Summer had forgotten for a moment that not everything was about her. But Seth was still talking."

"Think about that for a minute," he said, "and then fulfill my fantasies by telling me more about the badness or goodness of the current sex."

"Still on the none-of-your-business end of the question spectrum, not to mention the if-you-try-to-take-my-boyfriend-I-will-kill-you end of it, but I will tell you it was the best sex I've had since the last time I had sex with Atwood."

"Wow," Seth said. "So do you think you'll get to have it ever again or are you doomed to live life remembering just the single occasion?"

"Wasn't I nice to you when you were certain Luke wasn't coming back? Wasn't I supportive then? What have I done to merit this meanness now? Nothing, that's what."

"Probably not," Seth said. "But it's totally amusing to those of us on the outside looking in."

"I dislike you so much right now that I'm hanging up," Summer told him before she did just that. In lieu of Seth, she gave the phone a good glare. It rang, and she jumped before picking it up. Objects being glared at should not talk back.

"Seth, I told you I'm through talking to you," she said, lifting the receiver to her ear without bothering to check the ID.

"Um. Hi. It's me, not Seth," a voice said.

Summer glanced at the caller ID display. "Unknown" was calling her.

"Atwood?"

"Um, yeah," he said. "I'm a couple of blocks away. Could I come over to talk?"

"Yes," she said, stifling her joy so it wouldn't leak through the phone and scare him off. "I'll unlock the front door."

She hung up the phone and boogied down the hall toward the front door to unlock it. She checked a mirror. Frightful! She dived for the bathroom to brush her teeth and fluff her hair.

The doorbell rang while she was dabbing hair gel at her temples. Atwood, of course. Even though she had said she would leave the front door open. She checked her clothes once more in the full-length mirror, smoothing down her capris before bolting to the front door.

She threw the door open, and the day became better.

"Atwood," she said brightly. "Come in."

She watched Atwood's firm body amble into her life again, brushing past her and setting her body tingling. Her nose filled with his nutmeg Atwood smell and started her libido racing. She hoped, hoped, hoped he wanted to have sex again. Really soon.

She watched him dither. It was so cute. She took pity on him.

"Come sit down in the living room," she said, fairly certain he could handle that.

He could. He picked the green wing chair of two nights before and slumped down into it.

"Long day?" she said, taking a seat on arm of the sofa of two nights before. So far, everything was on target for a repeat of two nights before. She squiggled her purple moss toes in anticipation of toe-curling sex.

"Yeah," Atwood said. Summer watched him gather his thoughts and brace himself to speak.

"Summer," he said. "I wanted to talk to you about something that's hard to talk about."

Summer leaned closer toward him, sniffing for the nutmeg.

"OK," she agreed.

"I don't know how to start," he said.

"Just start," she said. "I'll even be quiet."

He paused and looked up at her. His eyes were tired, and there was wariness in the way he was holding his head. Summer felt a sharp stab near her throat. No, please no. He was going to dump her again. No.

Please.

No.

Atwood opened his mouth.

Summer's breath caught.

"Summer," Atwood said. "I know where Seth's dad is."


	10. Chapter 10

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Many thanks to those of you still reading, especially famous99.

Chapter 10

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Summer stood up and punched Atwood in the belly. Hard. He deserved it.

Stupid Atwood, making her think he was going to dump her.

"I'm sorry," Atwood said, clutching his belly as if wounded Ha! Like a little tap like that hurt. "I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't until now."

"Not for that," Summer said, stomping toward the kitchen. She turned back toward him. "Well, yes for that, but not just that."

"Summer, what's wrong?" Atwood said, standing to follow her. She wasn't stopping though. She marched through the kitchen and out the door to the patio, where she stood in the bright sunlight, letting it soothe her.

Sunshine had always made her feel better. It was her namesake, after all, and she was just lucky to live in the land of endless summer. She felt the warmth on her shoulders and let it relax the tension in her back.

Atwood had followed her to the patio and was fumbling with the back door. He turned toward her, hesitantly. She waved him over to sit with her in the shade of her umbrella table, and he moved toward her, huddling one arm protectively over his stomach. He sat, eyeing her cautiously. He waited for her to speak.

Summer breathed in then out. She closed her eyes and thought for a minute. Telling the truth appeared to be her only option. Not that she wanted to lie to Atwood. She just didn't necessarily want him to know everything. It had hurt badly enough when he left last time that she wasn't eager to try it again.

On the other hand, nothing ventured, nothing gained. She plunged ahead.

"I thought you were trying to dump me," she said outright.

His squinting eyes told her that he had never contemplated such a thing. She watched him try to find the words to say it for her. She could have helped him out, but it was something she really needed to hear him say. She turned her gaze to the soft rippling of the water inside her swimming pool. The tile was supposed to be Mediterranean blue. She privately thought of it as Atwood blue. It matched his eyes.

She turned her head back toward him and checked. Sure enough, a true match.

"I'm sorry," Atwood said.

Summer reached over and picked up his blond hand, tanned and warm, in both of hers. She rubbed her thumbs in his palm, feeling the ligaments under her fingers. She felt his eyes on her neck. He covered her hands with his free hand, trapping them. She didn't move. She smelled the fresh, promising California air mixed with sun-warmed chlorine water and let her hands relax into his calloused grip.

Safety was in those hands. She wanted to keep them for herself forever. She breathed in the air that smelled like hope. She wanted to believe in its possibilities, but there had to be a hard conversation first, one she wasn't sure she could get through without weeping.

"I guess we need to talk," she said. "Have the conversation we should have had two nights ago."

Without looking up, she could feel Atwood nodding. Her eyes were still on their joined hands. She refused to believe there was anything the two of them couldn't overcome together. The trick would be convincing Atwood.

"Summer, when I left," Atwood began, "I was just trying to leave you before you got bored and ditched me. I thought it would hurt less that way. But it didn't. I'm still waiting for you to dump me. I wish you'd go ahead and get it over with."

She looked up at him, startled, and opened her mouth. He freed a hand and lifted it to touch her lips with one finger. He traced those lips with his finger, petal soft.

"I know I'm not the kind of guy you can marry," he said. "But I didn't want to be just -- whatever it was that we were. I didn't want to steal your future from you.

"Guys like me know we're not husband material," he went on. "And I was right. Without a dead-end loser like me dragging you down, you have this terrific house and a great job and lots of friends and your life is good. You're better off without me."

"Stop," Summer said. "Just stop."

She took a breath, unsure where to begin. It made her heart hurt when he talked about being a loser when he was the best man she knew.

"Let me tell you about my life," she said. "It's miserable. I hate my job. I hate this house that my parents and Zach's bought for us. My only friends are Luke and Seth. I hate being a Newpsie. I hate the country club.

"Things change, Ryan," she said, looking into his eyes so he would know she was sincere. "Seasons change. People change. I've changed. Yeah, even me. I have everything I thought I wanted, and I don't want any of it. This is what I know: I was happy when I was with you.

Summer read the uncertainty in his eyes. Her fish wanted the bait. She had to set the hook before he squiggled away.

"I told you I didn't think either one of us gave us a chance," she quickly said. "Let's give us a time limit."

"A time limit?"

"Let's date and go out and do all the things that normal boyfriends and girlfriends do for a set time period. Then we'll re-evaluate," Summer said. She had been successful with the time limit technique in the business world. She hoped it would work for her romantic world as well. She checked out Atwood's squint. He was intrigued. Good.

"How long?" he said.

"Let's give us two months," she said. "And just for the record, I don't spend my time with losers. But I do want to spend it with you."

She waited, barely breathing, while Atwood rolled the idea around in his mind. She licked her lips, hoping, hoping.

"OK," he said.

She didn't squeal, but she wanted to when he wrapped his free hand into the nest of hair behind her head and pulled her forward, cradling her neck. His strong back bowed as he leaned toward her. Summer breathed in nutmeg as she closed her eyes, waiting for his gentle kiss.

He pecked her lips and pulled away from her.

"Can we use your bedroom again?" he said.


	11. Chapter 11

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Chapter 11

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Summer couldn't remember being happier. She could feel Atwood's strong body beside her as her head rested on his shoulder in afterglow. She could hear his deep breaths, rhythmically reminding her of his presence. Her head moved with his breath as he inhaled to speak. She sighed in satiation.

"There's an awful lot of peach in this room," Atwood said. She felt his head moving from side to side. "I would have guessed pink."

"Pink was high school," Summer told him. "I'm a real woman now. Besides, Zach objected strongly to pink in the bedroom. Just one of our 500 fights per day."

"Tell me about him," Atwood said.

"Zach?"

"Yeah."

"He was nice. He is nice, still," she said after thought. "I met him at a party my dad was having. He was nice and polite and thoughtful. He thought I was cute and funny, so I said yes when he wanted to go out on a date. Then another date. Then I said yes when he said we should visit Italy during winter break. Then while we were in Tuscany, I said yes when he asked me to marry him and yes when he wanted it to be right away.

"When I flew home, I was married to a nice guy I didn't love. Our fights were always about stupid stuff, like what color to paint the walls. We never talked about anything important. Just what things look like. Zach's parents are in politics, and now he's working for a junior congressman as an aide or something. I expect he'll run for office himself at some point. He'll probably win. Zach's really easy to say yes to."

Summer rolled over. She nuzzled her lips against Atwood's strong, thick throat.

"He wasn't you," she said into the warm pulse of his skin.

"You could be a congressman's wife?" Atwood said.

"No, I couldn't," Summer said. "I couldn't stay married to a nice guy like that while I loved somebody else. I couldn't keep fighting about nothing just to keep a spark in the bedroom. Also, his mom hated me, which made the divorce easier to go through."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Whenever I started wavering, whenever I started thinking about staying married just because Zach's such a nice guy, I made myself think about 30 years of Thanksgiving dinners with his mom."

Summer shuddered.

"I signed those papers like Cole Trickle at the start of a race."

Summer ran her hand across the skin of Atwood's chest. She had taken her time all night, slowly assuring herself his body was the same as she remembered. She hadn't thought it possible, but his body was better than she remembered. He was a man now. Well, he had always been a man, but now she was a woman instead of a girl, and it made a difference.

"I had sex with my boss," Atwood said.

"I know," Summer said. "She came to see me. And she said you quit. What's up with that?"

Summer sat up in bed and frowned at Atwood. He didn't avoid her gaze.

"I'm not working for you anymore," he said. "If we're going to be together, we're going to be equals."

Summer thought about it.

"Fair enough," she said. "What are you going to do instead?"

Now Atwood did look away.

"I have some ideas. I still have a couple of jobs. I can keep my apartment."

Summer slid a fingertip from his throat down his sternum toward lower places. His hand grabbed her hand, blocking its downward slide. He brought the captured hand up to his mouth and kissed the fingers, one by one. Atwood caught her other hand and pushed her onto her back.

He kissed her once, right on the breastbone, before releasing her hands, sitting up and taking her right foot in his hands. He rubbed the foot with gentle strokes, thumbs finding the right pressure point in her arches unerringly. Wow, had she ever missed the patented Atwood foot massage. She felt her eyes rolling backward in their sockets, and she hoped no drool would emerge from her lips. She wiped them surreptitiously with the back of a hand before laying back and giving herself up to the pleasure.

"You still wear heels that are too tall," Atwood informed her. Too bad he always gave this lecture while rubbing her feet, because it was impossible to pay attention and suppress moans of delight at the same time. He pulled the toes gently.

"What's this color called?" Atwood said, waggling her big toe.

"Pruple mush," she mumbled.

"Purple moss," he interpreted accurately. He kept on rubbing. A gasp escaped Summer as his hands hit a particularly sensitive spot. Atwood placed her foot on his chest and put his hands on her calves, finding the spots where the tension of the work week settled.

"Auckgh," she said blearily.

"Shh," he said. "I want to tell you about Seth's dad."

Summer managed to focus enough on his face to see that he was genuinely concerned that she would be upset with him. When had she ever been upset with him? If she didn't count the times he didn't let her pay for stuff or the times he tried to break up with her or the times he took her dad's side, never, that's when. He really had nothing to fear. She had always been a reasonable person.

Atwood took her foot off his chest and picked up the left one.

"Seth's dad was my lawyer when I was in juvie," Atwood said. "After I got out, he helped me get the job working for your dad. Then after the divorce, he kind of dropped out of sight."

"I know that much," Summer said. "What's new?"

"A year or two ago, I ran into him again," Atwood said. "He's teaching law classes at the community center where I work sometimes. He takes some cases, not many. Mostly he works to stay off the bottle. Here's the thing: I don't know whether Seth would want to see his dad. I mean, I know he wants to see his dad, but I don't know whether he wants to see his dad like that. And I don't know whether Mr. Cohen wants to see Seth looking like that.

"But it's hard to see Seth without telling him. And it's hard to see Mr. Cohen without telling them. And I'm going to keep running into Seth as long as I'm seeing you, and I'm going to keep seeing Mr. Cohen as long as I work at the community center. And if I'm not working for the Martinezes, I need to keep working at the community center. I don't know what to do, Summer. That's what I came over to tell you."

His voice trailed off. It was an awful lot of words for Atwood to have produced. He had been agitated enough to stop rubbing her foot while he said them. She waved at him to resume rubbing while she thought about the situation. He did so. She couldn't decide whether it helped or hindered the thinking process.

"You know, Luke Skywalker wanted to know his dad, even if it turned out to be Darth Vader," she said finally. "I'm pretty sure Seth wants to see his dad, no matter what the situation is. So the question is whether Seth's dad wants to see him."

"So I have to tell him," Atwood said. "But what if he says no?"

"Then you'll still tell Seth anyway," Summer said, more sure of herself. Yes, the foot rub was definitely an aid to thinking clearly. She should arrange her life so she got more of them from Atwood. "And Seth's dad will have some advance warning that Seth wants to see him. So he can either set the terms himself, or he can let Seth set the terms. Surely he's a good enough lawyer to figure that out."

"Are you sure?"

"I know that Seth needs to know where his dad is. Ever since Seth's mom went to prison, he's been weird about family. I mean, he even wants me to get back together with my dad, like that's ever going to happen."  
"Mrs. Cohen – prison?" Atwood said, stunned.

"Yeah, some kind of payoff scheme that went bad. Seth's grandfather did most of the shady dealing, from what I hear, but since Mrs. Cohen's name was on some of the paperwork, she got a Martha Stewart sentence. She'll be out in a couple of months. Mr. Nichol won't be out for a couple more years.

"So that's one thing that you and Seth have in common right now. You both have parents in prison. And you've had a lot longer to get used to the idea."


	12. Chapter 12

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

Many thanks to famous99, who kindly and sweetly pointed out that the ending of this chapter was cheesetastically over my dairy limit. It might not be perfect, but I know it's better. Thanks, famous!

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Chapter 12

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The Jeep pulling up to the Chino Hills Community Center was full of worried faces.

Fortunately, Summer thought smugly, hers wasn't among them. She had no immediate connection with anything that might happen in the fraught moments to come.

Sure, she was concerned that Seth would be disappointed. But for once, nothing that could happen was her fault. Well, sort of nothing. This meeting with Mr. Cohen had been her idea, after all.

And she was the one who had bullied Atwood into setting it up. She was the one who had spent the morning convincing Seth that he should go through with the plans he had made. She was the one who had convinced Luke to stay in the car for this first meeting with Seth's dad.

Ack. She was entirely to blame. Her face joined the others' in worry. It was all her fault, every single thing that could possibly go wrong as father and son finally met again for the first time in eight years. The single most pivotal moment in her best friend's life. The meeting that could change the course of a divorced alcoholic lawyer's career. The instant when Atwood would be crushed or elated.

And that was the crux of Summer's concern. She wasn't really sure when Atwood had replaced Seth at the top of Summer's special-people list, but he had. Or maybe he had just never moved from the top of that list.

"Park anywhere," Atwood's deep voice rumbled beside her in the cramped back seat. She glanced outside in surprise. They had arrived at an unprepossessing red brick building with all the architectural style of a 1960s elementary school. Charming. She looked into the front seat at a greenish Seth as Luke set the brake on his ragtop Jeep.

"Seth, if you're going to be sick, open the door first," she instructed him.

"Probably not helping," Atwood whispered.

"So not helping," Luke agreed.

"Not a bad idea," Seth said, unlatching the door and poking his curly head out. He breathed fresh air while everyone else in the Jeep waited to see what might come up. Or out.

"But not a useful one, either," Seth concluded, pulling his head back in and closing the fabric door gently. "Maybe we should just go on back to Summer's place, catch some rays, swim some laps."

"Maybe you should stop being a little bitch," Luke said. "Get it over with. One way or another. At least you'll know. If it gets bad, you can always call your Big Gay Boyfriend to come rescue you."

Luke waggled his cell phone.

"I'm only a beep away."

Seth looked at Luke for a long time.

"Promise you won't beat him up until I say you can," he finally said.

"My fists are yours to command," Luke said.

They looked at each other like they always did when things were about to get gooey, Summer thought, rolling her eyes as they leaned across the gear shift toward each other. Time to break up the smoochy-woochiness.

"We're on a schedule," she said, sticking her watch between their kiss and pointing to it ostentatiously. "The yackfest is scheduled for after the meeting with Long Lost Dad, not before. And you guys are making me sick. Now move, so Atwood and I can get out, too."

Seth made a face at her, but he obediently reopened the door and climbed out. Atwood clambered after him, then turned and waited for Summer, offering her a hand. She scooted across the seat, placed her hand in his and felt his strong biceps take her weight as she stumbled from the Jeep into his arms. He held her for a moment, nose in her hair. She got her balance back, but she didn't move out of his embrace.

"Yackfest later, remember?" Seth said right beside her ear.

Summer offered Seth a perfunctory glare, but she moved away from Atwood. Time and place for everything. Now was the time to see Seth's dad; later would be the time to maim Seth; after that, she thought, she could work in a little uninterrupted time with Atwood and her four-poster.

Seth patted his cell phone, reassuring himself of its presence, and turned toward the building entrance. "C-ino H--ls Communi—C-en-er," according to the sign in front. Below the official lettering, a thoughtful individual had hand-spray-painted an invitation to call Debbie for a good time.

"Who's Debbie?" Summer said, elbowing Atwood in the ribs.

"My sister," Atwood said.

Seth stopped. He turned around.

"Your sister?"

A long pause.

Atwood finally said, "Kidding."

Deadpan.

Seth gave Atwood a long look. Summer gave Atwood a long look. Atwood looked blandly back at both of them, eyes open wide in apparent innocence.

Seth turned around again and marched away determinedly. He must have decided it was better to face his father than more of Atwood's so-called humor.

Summer grabbed Atwood's hand and mouthed "thank you" at him.

He smiled.

Summer didn't let go of his hand as they entered the metal double-doors painted an eye-catching shade of puke.

They walked as a group into the entry.

"This way," Atwood said, dropping Summer's hand and taking the lead down a long, dark, narrow corridor that smelled like industrial-grade disinfectant.

His knuckles tapped a wooden door near the end of the hall.

"Mr. Cohen?" he said. "It's Ryan. I've brought Seth."

The door opened so fast that Summer felt a breeze.

A man stood in the door, with Seth's dark, curly hair and Seth's eye shape and Seth's mouth and Seth's rumpled way of wearing clothes and Seth's eyebrows.

The man carried himself with confidence and diffidence, the same combination that said "Seth" to Summer.

The man's dark gray suit had clearly seen better days, but it had been expensive when purchased. Telltale store creases on the crisp white shirt gave away its newness, but the silk tie was well worn. The man smoothed it down a couple of times, the same nervous gesture Summer had seen Seth use so often.

"Come in," the man said.

He gestured toward a musty room full of mismatched chairs and donated wooden tables, all deeply carved with initials and hearts and death threats.

The back wall was shelved with clothbound hardbacks. The chalkboard at the front of the room was covered with case names and arrows and exclamation points.

Summer jerked her attention back to Atwood, who was introducing her. Mr. Cohen noticed her interest and motioned toward the chalkboard.

"From last night's class," he said in a booming voice that had at one time swayed judges and juries to his side of cases. "Property rights of renters."

"Glad to see you're still helping the downtrodden," Seth said, studying the chalkboard.

"It's all I can do since I lost my son," Mr. Cohen said. He was turned more toward the chalkboard than toward Seth. Summer wondered how such a kind man could have hurt Seth so badly.

"You didn't lose him," Seth said. "You walked away from him and never found your way back. Though I see you kept the tie he gave you for Father's Day when he was in fourth grade. Even if you couldn't keep up with the actual defective kid."

Mr. Cohen nodded and then shook his head.

Well, Summer thought, that was a profoundly uncomfortable piece of truth-telling. In the awkward silence that followed, Summer found herself hoping Seth could forgive this rumpled, well-meaning man. She and Atwood should probably leave the family drama now that it had started, but Seth and Mr. Cohen were blocking the door. She reached out for Atwood's hand again and pulled him toward the windows. They could offer that much privacy and would still be able to hear. Perfect! Not that she was snoopy or anything.

"I still have a picture the world's most wonderful kid drew for me when he was in kindergarten," Mr. Cohen said. "It's a picture of the kid with his beautiful mother and his defective father. The wonderful kid told me it was the perfect family. Too bad the defective father ruined it for everyone."

There was a long silence.

"The family wasn't perfect," Seth said, looking at his fingernails. "The boy might have heard a lot of yelling before the divorce came through. So I guess the dad wasn't totally to blame. The kid might not have taken the mom's side, except the mom was the only one left at home. That and the grandpa."

"I heard about Caleb," Mr. Cohen said. "I'm sorry. I only heard about your mom when Ryan told me."

"A thief and a dupe and an absentee," Seth said. "The defective didn't have exactly the greatest role models and is sort of afraid he's going to go down the family primrose path and that's why the kid can't really keep a relationship going and has only three friends but then again, all these people had everything going for them right up to the point when the defective kid entered their lives, so the defective kid kind of thinks he might be the problem, not all the other people. So the defective drinks, too, not that that's any of the business of the absentee, and he tried to get along with the dupe and took a job with the thief and it was really only because the defective started getting drunk at work and had to go to rehab and then get a different job that the defective didn't go to jail, too, not that the absentee cares or at least …"

"The defective drunken absentee father cares," Mr. Cohen interrupted. Good thing. Seth could keep that sort of babble up for hours.

"And he's sure the defective mom cares, too," Mr. Cohen went on. "Maybe the wonderful family was really a defective family, and that's why it worked. Maybe it quit working when all the defective members of the family started thinking they had to be perfect.

"But this defective father loves his defective kid. My Setheleh. If he'll forgive me. Even if he doesn't. I love him forever."

Summer heard Seth's gulp for air past tears and could picture him scrubbing his eyes. She held her breath and bit her lower lip, waiting for Seth's response and found herself wiping her own tears.

Seth spoke.

"I love you, too, Dad."


	13. Chapter 13

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Chapter 13

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The restaurant was crowded and smelled slightly of fish fried in oil.

But their table was in a private cubicle.

Summer smiled as the waitress escorted them past the curtains and invited them to be seated.

She watched Atwood look around nervously.

"Nice choice," she praised him. "Seth and I used to come here a lot."

"He said you liked it," Atwood said, looking down at the damask tablecloth. He twitched in his seat then made a manful effort to still himself.

"You look fine," Summer said. She leaned over to emphasize her point. "No one's going to throw you out. They want your money. They'll bring us food and they won't say anything about table manners."

Atwood looked up at her reassurance. He gave her a weak smile, one that said he appreciated her words but wasn't sure he believed them.

"Besides," Summer went on, "you're with me. I'd like to see them say anything rude. I haven't had a rage blackout in, like, a week."

Atwood gave her a real smile before he opened his menu and started frowning again. She hoped it was the unfamiliarity of the food and not the prices. She did her own scan of the restaurant's offerings and looked for the cheapest entrée. That would be her order.

"I'm thinking about the grilled chicken," she said. "What looks good to you?"

"I wonder how fresh the tilapia is," he said. "And how it's prepared. And whether this seasonal vegetable medley is steamed. And what do you think about this lobster croquette?"

OK. So Atwood was at home with the food. She kept forgetting four years had passed. She wasn't the only person who had changed in those four years.

"I think I hate lobster," she said. "It's like a red-faced medieval warrior, waiting for battle, but then it's dropped in a pot of death without even a fair fight. I think if you wanted lobster, you should have brought Seth. He's a champion lobster eater. He says it's a ninja thing."

"He thinks eating lobster is like being a ninja?"

"Seth was allowed way too much PlayStation as a child," Summer said. "When did you start eating lobster?"

"Well, I haven't really," Atwood confessed, putting his menu flat on the table. "I watched a lot of Food Network when I was taking care of Theresa's kid. There wasn't much violence or blood in it, at least not to anybody but the lobster, so I figured it wouldn't be too bad for her."

"Theresa has a daughter?"

"Yeah," he said, suddenly becoming engrossed in the back page of the menu.

Summer waited.

"And?" she prompted.

"And we watched the Food Network together," Atwood said, still looking at the menu and not her.

"You're a really lousy reporter, you know that?" Summer said. "I want to know how old she is, what her name is, how much pink she wears and everything else."

"She's 9," Atwood said, leaving off the answers to the other questions as the waitress arrived with heavy, sweating glasses of icy water with lemon wheels floating in them.

"The lady would like the grilled chicken," Atwood said. "I'll have the tilapia."

Summer stared at him. Taking charge. Being the man. Ordering like an old Newport hand. She found herself getting warmer.

"Anything to drink?" the waitress said.

"White wine," Atwood said.

"House brand," Summer interjected. She didn't want Atwood spending all his money on a bottle of wine he couldn't afford and might not like just to impress her, especially since she didn't particularly care for wine. "Two glasses."

"Anything else?" the waitress said.

"We're fine," Atwood said, handing her the two menus.

"You were quite forceful with the ordering," Summer said. "It's kind of sexy."

"I just remembered how people order at Chicho's and did that," Atwood said.

"What's Chicho's?" Summer said, "And do you even like white wine?"

"I know it's what you're supposed to have with fish and chicken," Atwood said.

Summer narrowed her eyes at him.

"You know, that thing you do where you only answer one of my questions?" she said. "Annoying."

"Sorry," Atwood said. But he didn't answer any of her pending questions, either.

Summer decided it wasn't worth having a fight at a nice restaurant. She could get the answers to her questions from Theresa, after all, and she had other plans for the evening. Plans that involved slipping her shoes off underneath the table. Plans that involved sliding her toes – tiger's blood colored tonight – up the inside of Atwood's dark brown pants. Plans that involved smiling as his eyes popped a little.

"Um, Summer," he said. "Not that I'm objecting, but is this really the right place?"

"What better place?" she said. "We can just talk about all the lovely things we could be doing if we weren't eating. We can plan ahead for the rest of the night – you know, what happens after we eat."

The waitress arrived just then, dropping off two wine glasses and a basket of bread and butter. Summer pulled her feet down and put them inside her shoes again. Atwood put his napkin over his lap, awkwardly. Summer smiled.

"To new adventures," she said, picking up her wineglass for a toast. Atwood picked his up, too.

"To new adventures," he said, obediently. They clinked their glasses, and Summer sipped.

"A delightful piquancy with a note of elderberry in the finish," she said after swallowing.

Atwood looked at her quizzically.

"No, not really," Summer said. "It tastes like white wine to me. Zach wanted me to develop a palate, but I never did. Do you like it?"

Atwood sipped again, testing.

"It's different," he said finally.

"It's OK to hate it," Summer said.

"Can I just drink the water?" Atwood said.

"I'll drink to that," Summer said, picking up her water glass and clearing her mouth with a big swallow.

She smoothed garlic butter over a slice of bread from the tiny loaf the waitress had left behind. She passed it to Atwood and buttered a slice for herself.

"Now where were we?" she said. She dropped her shoe and found Atwood's pant leg with her tiger's blood toes again. "I remember. To new experiences."

She lifted her bread in toast.

"I'll drink to that," said a voice behind her.

She spun around. Her feet slapped onto the floor and hastily sought her shoes again.

"Seth!"

"And me," Luke said.

"And Luke!" Summer said as required. It was nice to see them, but – honestly! – couldn't they have waited 10 more minutes? "What are you doing here?"

"Ryan said you two had a date tonight. I told him to bring you here," Seth said, gesturing first toward Atwood and then toward the surroundings. "Ergo, I knew where you were and could hunt you down."

"If you know we're having a date, you know we probably don't want you here," Summer said, smiling through clenched teeth. "You know, with the word DATE and all."

"Atwood doesn't mind, do you, Atwood?" Luke said, turning toward Atwood.

"No," Atwood said quietly. "Would you like some wine? We're not drinking it."

"Sure would," Seth said. "Unfortunately, that might lead yours truly down the Cohen family road, which leads to my problem and the reason I wanted to see you both tonight."

"Is it anything that couldn't wait?" Summer said, trying to be nice. And failing.

"No," Seth said. "OK if we join you?"  
"Why ask now?" Summer said.

"Please do," Atwood said at the same time.

She kicked him under the table and took satisfaction in his sudden jerk of pain.

Seth sat down next to her. She kicked him for good measure.

He gasped loudly.

"Oops," she said insincerely. "My foot must have slipped."

"Yeah, right," Seth said, sullenly rubbing his sore shin. "I didn't come to talk to you anyway. I need Ryan's advice."

"Me?"

"Yeah, it's sort of an emergency," Luke said. "In a Seth sort of way."

"Yeah," Seth agreed. "My dad wants to break my mom out of prison."


	14. Chapter 14

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Chapter 14

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"That's unexpected," Summer said. "What are you supposed to do to help? I mean, with the not-talking-to-her problem."

"It's not so much that I don't talk to her as that I don't go to the prison to talk to her," Seth said. "I write. I don't know why Dad isn't being more reasonable on the subject. I mean, he hasn't talked to her in several years himself. But there you have it. He wants to be her lawyer and get her out of the slammer in atonement or something. Or maybe something more personal that I don't want to think about or picture, because I would be scarred for life. More scarred."

"Why doesn't he just go talk to her himself?" Summer said, offering what she thought was a logical solution.

"Because he's not on her will-see list," Atwood said. OK. Atwood would know more about big-house rules than she did.

"And Seth is," Summer said.

"And I am," Seth said. "Which puts me in a bind. Because I still don't want to go see her there. She's going to be out soon anyway. And it's like Dad's trying to make up for eight years of not giving me things to feel guilty about."

"And when Seth feels guilty, he agitates," Luke put in. "And when Seth agitates, I want to kill him. So it's sort of a Luke emergency, too. If I don't want to join Mrs. Cohen in lockup, you need to give us some advice."

Summer looked from Seth to Luke to Atwood. When had the three of them become advice-giving-and-taking buddies? Had she been absent that day? Had there been beers and bonding?

More importantly, had there been beers and bonding without her?

Summer shook her head. She could get to the bottom of that problem later. For the moment, her goal was to get Seth to leave.

"That's too bad," Summer said. "I feel just terrible about that. Now leave."

Atwood reproached her with his blue eyes.

She looked at him defiantly.

He kept on looking at her, eyebrows raised expectantly. Her eyes dropped.

"Oh, all right," she told Luke and Seth sullenly. "You can stay."

"Thanks," Seth said. He turned to Atwood. "So you'll do it?"

"Do what?" Atwood said, turning his head away from Summer and back toward Seth.

"Go with me to visit my mom," Seth said, as if it were the most reasonable suggestion in the world. Probably he couldn't understand why everyone didn't instantly fall in line with his plan. Sometimes Seth could be self-centered. Summer knew. She had slight tendencies that way herself.

"Seth, your mom hates me," Atwood said.

"My mom doesn't know you," Seth said.

"Then the first time she meets me shouldn't be in prison," Atwood said firmly. "You'll do fine with Luke."

"Nuh-uh," Luke said. "No can do. Working. Can't ditch anymore when you're the professor."

Atwood sat for a moment, thinking.

"Dude, are you scared of my mother?" Seth said.

Atwood looked up from under his hair, a quizzical as-if expression quirking his eyebrows.

"Summer can go with you," he said finally.

"What?" Seth said incredulously.

"What?" Luke said unbelievingly.

"What?" Summer said in horror.

"Summer went to visit my brother in prison," Atwood said. "She knows the procedures. She knows your mom."

"And his mom hates me," Summer pointed out. It was true. Mrs. Cohen always looked at Summer as if Summer were a misplaced Las Vegas showgirl. A kewpie-sized showgirl. One with carnal intentions toward her baby boy. It had made Summer feel ooky, sort of like a child molester, even though she and Seth were the same age. Summer didn't like feeling ooky; ergo, she didn't like being around Mrs. Cohen. This plan sucked.

"But you're a woman," Atwood said. "She won't mind you as much as a strange man."

Summer immediately dropped her objections. Atwood thought of her as a woman, not a girl. This was definitely a step in the right direction, even if the footsie game had to be put on hold. Atwood was right. Summer was an adult. She could act like one for long enough to help her best friend visit his mom in the slammer. She squiggled her tiger's blood toes inside her rhinestone sandals.

The food had arrived, steaming. The waitress dropped off the hot platters and looked at Seth and Luke.

"What can I get for you?" she said.

"I'll have the lobster croquette," Seth said, before Summer could tell the woman that Seth and Luke wouldn't be staying.

"Yeah, that sounds good," Luke said. "With two waters."

The waitress put away her pad, turned on her heel and marched toward the kitchens. Well, that meant Seth and Luke would be staying at least through dessert. Seth never met a dessert he didn't like.

"Once again, Yard Man comes through," Seth said. "Thanks, buddy. Summer, when can you go?"

"Next week?"

"Yeah, let's get this over with," Seth said.

Summer could get behind that idea. She mentally scanned through her to-do list for the next week.

"I'll go," she said, "if you let Atwood try your lobster and drop your mom a note to let her know I'm coming."

Seth looked from Summer to Atwood and back.

"Deal," he said to Atwood. "But you can't have all of it. I'm a lobster-eater extraordinaire."

"You're a nerd extraordinaire," Luke said, twisting his knuckles into Seth's arm.

"Ow," Seth said, wincing. "Delicately, please. I'm in a fragile emotional state."

"Speaking of your fragile emotions," Summer said, taking a knife to her chicken, "what exactly does your dad plan to do about your mom?"

"Dad said he thinks Grandpa was paying someone off to keep a secret," Seth said. "If that someone comes forward, Mom might be off the hook. Grandpa would have to stay in the crowbar hotel though."

"Crowbar hotel?" Luke said. "Where do you read this stuff?"

"It's slammer talk," Seth said defensively. "If I'm going to be associating with prison denizens, I need to talk the language, sling the lingo, parlez the vous, rap like my homies, know what I mean?"

"Tell me again," Summer said slowly, fork in the air, chicken bite still stuck on it. She looked around. Apparently, she was the only person able to muster speech in the wake of that idiotic announcement. "How exactly is sounding like a big dork going to help you with your mom?"

"I have to be able to blend," Seth said. "I'm practicing."

He turned to Atwood.

"Back me up, dude," Seth said. "Isn't that the way you talk in the big house?"

Summer watched Atwood put down his fork and knife, considering his response before answering.

"I have to say," Atwood said, carefully, "that I've never heard the words 'crowbar hotel' in common use among the crowbar hotel crowd. I could be wrong, though. I haven't visited every prison for a survey."

"See," Luke said, turning to Seth. "You're a big dork."

"See," Seth said, turning to Luke. "I was right."

"See," Summer mocked. "You're both big dorks. And I'm not sure I want to attend a festive gathering at the local lockup, no matter what you call it."

"Come on, Summer," Seth whined. "I need someone to go with me. I promise I'll lay off the street language."

"Street!" Luke hooted.

Summer glared at Luke. He had picked on Seth enough for being stupid. And in Seth's defense, he was actually in a fragile emotional state from dealing with his mom and his dad and the financial disarray that Dear Grandpa Nichol had precipitated.

Luke looked a little shamefaced and a little defiant, but he obediently shut up. And that was really all that Summer could ask for.

"So," Summer said, turning back to Seth, "does your dad think he can find the Mystery Man?"

"Well, he thinks if he talks to Mom, she might give him some pointers on where to start the search," Seth said. "Also, I think he just wants to look at her. Ew."

"Hello, Summer," came a voice beside the table. It was a warm baritone, rich and trust-inspiring. Exactly the sort of voice that would make constituents swoon someday. Summer hated the voice.

"Hey, Zach," Seth said.

"Seth," Zach said.

Ugh. Just the sound of Zach saying Seth's name made Summer think horrible thoughts. Thoughts about pinstripes and sensible suits and boring pumps and French manicures and helmet head hairstyles for the rest of her life. She shuddered once before turning to look at his perfectly suited body. Hugo Boss, tsk tsk. What a … traditional sartorial choice.

"Zach," she said politely. OK, she didn't really say it politely, but it probably passed for politely.

"Hey," he said again. "Having dinner?"

"Yes," Summer said, her tone indicating she thought him the king of the suit-wearing eggheads for identifying the obvious and commenting on it. "Later, we'll be driving home. In a car. With an automatic transmission. Using gasoline."

"Hey, Zach," Seth interrupted, trying to break the poisonous moment. "Have you met my friends Ryan and Luke?"

"No," Zach said.

Luke stood up and offered his hand.

"Luke," he said in self-introduction.

Atwood copied him.

"Ryan Atwood," he said.

"Zach Stevens," Zach said, shaking their hands in turn. "Pleased to meet you."

He stood there waiting for Summer to say something, so she did.

"I'm still Summer."

"Well, it was nice to see you again," Zach said. "Mom sends her best."

He smiled to them all impartially.

"It was nice to meet you, Ryan, Luke," he said.

He left, and Luke and Atwood sat down.

"You should be nicer to him," Seth said, snagging a piece of bread from the basket and buttering it.

"You're nice enough to him for both of us," she told him, retrieving the slice. Traitorous friends shouldn't get bread. "Did you hear that dig about his mom?"

"It sounded like polite conversation to me," Luke said.

"Well, when you've been married, things that sound polite aren't always," she said, chopping the piece in half with her teeth. "Let's talk about something else."

But no other conversational topics offered themselves. They sat in silence until their waitress returned with two more hot dinners and dropped them off in front of Seth and Luke.

Seth divided a croquette.

"Push your plate over here, buddy," he said to Atwood. "It's time to study the master's technique."

"Thanks," Atwood said cautiously. Their plate edges bumped and Seth forked a third of a steaming croquette over to Atwood. Seth pulled his plate back to himself and squished off a healthy bite, smiling as he did so.

"Once again," Seth said victoriously and a little smugly, "I win. The Super Samurai always triumphs."


	15. Chapter 15

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

When Famous99 read this chapter and the next three, she made me rewrite them all, like, a bunch of times. A bunch. So anything you like in here is thanks to her.

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Chapter 15

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Summer sat on a stainless steel seat, scowling.

Really, there was no way to be happy in a prison. But that screaming baby wasn't helping matters.

Nor was the smell: perky Lysol overlaying a thick green coating of vomit and diarrhea scrubbed off linoleum and stainless. Summer remembered the smell from her last trip to prison and from her candy striper days. She hadn't liked it then, either.

She twitched on her chair. At least this time she knew better than to wear a miniskirt that would stick to the stainless. The chair was still about a size too small, though. Summer looked around her at the oversize men and women waiting for their turn to visit families and wondered how they managed to fit on those chairs. She took another look at the woman closest to her. Well, apparently, they squooshed over the sides and didn't fit. Just like that cheap knit top might have fit the woman 20 pounds ago. Now, it was squooshing out some cleavage. And extras.

Summer looked again and looked sharply. Ack! The stretch was revealing something she didn't want to see – something a darker color than the rest of the breast. Something a little closer to the nipple area than she wanted to look.

Summer leaned in Seth's direction.

"Are you even aware how much you owe me?" she whispered.

"I'm beginning to realize," he said grimly. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

"You had to come," Summer said. "It wasn't as if you could say no."

"You could have," Seth said.

"I did," Summer said. "You see how well that worked out."

"Yeah, how did that happen anyway?"

"A) You're my friend, and B) Atwood asked me to."

"And that's all it takes?"

"Pretty much," Summer said, sighing. "I'm helpless against him."

An elbow slammed into Summer's ribs. That was the first sign that all was not well in waiting-room-land. The two women screaming at each other in Spanish was the second clue. Summer grabbed Seth's arm and leaned almost into his lap as a prison guard came over to break up the fight.

"Did you catch any of that?" Seth said.

"Something about somebody's boyfriend and somebody's baby," Summer said.

"I thought you took a lot of Spanish in college," Seth said. "Here's your chance for practical application."

"I'm not so hot on the translation part," Summer said. "Just the ordering food part. Quiero dos tacos."

Seth eyed her thoughtfully as the two women who started the brawl were escorted firmly from the room, one of them still screaming imprecations at the other.

"If I tell you something, will you not punch me for it?" he finally said.

Summer looked at him and narrowed her eyes. He was squirming, as if his pants were full of marbles. Knowing Seth, that meant he had a secret. Which meant she could get it out of him.

"Give," she demanded.

"It's about Atwood. Ryan."

Seth suddenly had Summer's undivided attention.

"Are you really helpless against him?" Seth said. "Cause – and this is breaking a confidence, so if you tell him I told you, he'll never trust me again, not that he should, since I'm proving myself untrustworthy by telling you even though you are my best friend and we really shouldn't keep secrets, but he did ask, and I did say yes, which sort of makes me … "

Summer put a well-manicured but uncolored finger in front of his mouth.

"Stop," she said. "Breathe. Then tell me or die."

Seth looked at her over her finger. He pointed to her finger with one of his own. She removed her finger.

"OK," she said. "Now talk."

"Ryan is waiting every day for you to dump him," Seth said.

"What!"

Oops. That unfortunate exclamation had drawn the attention of a big-breasted guard wearing a blue suit, sensible shoes and a glare, who marched toward them with purpose, intent on avoiding a scene like the one she had just broken up.

"Keep it down," she said menacingly.

"Sorry, Officer," Seth said. "She just found out about the twins."

The guard didn't ask more questions. She frowned as if sure she were being mocked and then stomped back to her station.

"The twins?" Summer said.

"It just came into my head," Seth said.

"No doubt put there by the latest comic book," Summer said, "and don't think I don't know you indulge on the sly. Luke might not know, but I do."

"Luke gave it to me," Seth said. "He picks them out for me. It's like a little I-love-you note from Luke and the kind folks at Marvel each month."

"Oh, how sweet," Summer said. She dropped the subject and returned to her first interest. "Why does Atwood think I'm going to dump him?"

"Because all your actions say you're going to dump him?" Seth guessed.

"Which actions are those, exactly?"

Seth counted them off on his fingers.

"One. You told him you'd 'see how it goes for two months.' Well, two months have come and gone, and you haven't said anything to him. Two. You don't ever ask about his job or his work or his interests outside of work. Three. You've never seen his apartment. Four. When you take him out, you don't introduce him to anybody. Like Zach at the restaurant last week.

"Five. Well, five is that Ryan has a name. A name that you don't use. You still talk to him like the hired help. He's not, Summer. He's a great guy, and he's in misery. If you're going to dump him, do it and get it over with. If you're not, you've got to tell him."

Summer turned away from Seth. Those were hard truths to hear. It was worse because they were true.

"I'm waiting for him to get tired of me," she finally confessed miserably. "I didn't mention the two months were up because I hoped he wouldn't notice."

"Like tricking him into dating you?"

"Yeah, but I didn't mean it like that. And I don't ask about his work because that sounds like I'm asking about money. That's always been a tricky topic between us. You know, that I have it and he doesn't. I have to trust him when he says he can handle his rent and his truck payment. He's never invited me to his apartment.

"And I didn't introduce him to Zach because Zach doesn't deserve the introduction.

"Listen, I know Atwood's a great guy. You don't have to tell me that. He's smart and clever and kind and thoughtful, and he deserves someone better than me. I keep waiting for him to find her.

"I don't want to be dumped, either," she went on sadly. "I've been noticing things lately. Things that make me think he's not interested. Is it so wrong that I don't want to be dumped?"

"You two make me crazy," Seth said. "What sort of things could possibly make you think he doesn't want you anymore?"

"He doesn't stick around anymore," Summer said. "You know, after sex. He used to stay and talk until I had to leave for work. Now he gets up and puts his pants on and goes back to his apartment, where there's probably some trashy Chino ho waiting."

"If you think he has another girl," Seth said in disbelief, "why haven't you dumped him."

Summer hid her face in her hands. She wasn't sure she wanted to go this far in the confession, but she squeezed it out through her fingers.

"I love him," she said, then whispered. "I'll take whatever I can get, for however long I can have it. I know that makes me a pathetic loser, but I don't care."

Seth looked at her with soft brown eyes. He took her hand in his and stroked it with his thumb.

"My sweet Summer," he said gently. "You are such a dope. Ryan loves you, too. He's leaving so he can get to his third job. Because he's trying to save enough money for a project he has in mind so that he can have enough money in the bank to ask you to marry him."


	16. Chapter 16

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Chapter 16

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Summer put her car in park and turned off the engine. She got out and checked her picnic basket in the back seat. Maybe a romantic surprise dinner would be just the ticket to get Atwood – Ryan, she corrected herself – to confess his feelings.

No matter what Seth said, Summer still didn't want to be the first one to fall, just in case he was wrong about what Atwood – Ryan – thought about her.

Summer looked toward the college. Who knew night classes -- and hence night class parking lots -- would be so full? Who knew all these people would want to know more about the exciting world of geometry?

It was a mystery to her. She started trudging toward the math building's doors, mentally going through her romance kit.

Tequila, mixer, glasses – check.

Fruit and cheese – check.

Knife and napkins – check.

Candles and matches – check.

Condoms – check, check, check.

Yes, she was ready, especially if she counted the brand-new peach lingerie she was wearing underneath. Now she just needed to find an appreciative Atwood – Ryan! – and a quiet corner. And a place to take off her shoes. As she traversed the parking lot, Summer calculated the distance traveled so far and the distance yet to travel and discovered she could do geometry, too. Summer's geometry theorem dictated that the distance yet to be traveled in a new pair of slinky sandals was way too far without a rest stop. That might not be the square of the hypotenuse, but it was true, nonetheless.

Summer stopped at the literature building doors and braced herself for the weight. These new shoes were definitely not meant for walking long distances or for opening doors or anything practical. They were meant for seducing At—Ryan! She looked down to admire them around her feet. Yeah, they should probably do the trick. If she didn't break an ankle first.

Summer made a hard right turn toward Luke's office, telling herself she was taking a rest stop and not procrastinating. Mike Roberts' daughter didn't procrastinate; she proactivate. Proactivated? Something inspirational like that. Summer decided she couldn't be bothered to think of the right word, especially since Luke's office was just ahead, a cheap brown nameplate glued to the door.

"You haven't killed your office-warming plant yet," she informed him, swinging around the corner into a book-crammed cubbyhole.

"No, I've killed it twice," Luke said, looking over his shoulder at her. "I just keep getting replacements, since you couldn't be bothered to pay more than $5 for it to begin with. What are you doing here?"

He circled around and casually pulled his loafers off the paper-strewn desk. Summer looked around. She hadn't been here much lately.

"Your office doesn't look much like Seth's dad's," she said. "But you have about the same amount of books."

"I wouldn't know," Luke said sourly. "I haven't been invited to the Cohen portal of wisdom."

Summer cocked her head to examine him. Besides not visiting lately, she'd been so caught up in her own romantic drama that she hadn't really been talking to Luke, either. Certainly not enough to notice the unhappy crow's feet lining his eyes.

She pushed paper piles aside and plunked herself onto the vacated area. If he didn't want her to do that, he should have stuck in a visitor chair somewhere. Oh, wait. There WAS a visitor chair. It was just hard to see with all the ungraded papers on it.

"What's wrong?" she said. "Tell Auntie Summer."

"I don't know exactly," Luke said. "It's nothing in particular. It's just …"

Summer waited for him to decide what to tell her.

"I think he's embarrassed to tell his dad about me," Luke said. "I mean, I know that first time they didn't really need an audience. And they didn't the second time either. But it's been four weeks, and as far as I can tell, Seth hasn't even told his dad he has a boyfriend."

"Really?"

"Really. And I don't know whether it's because he can't remember to tell him – I mean, they're catching up on about six years – or because he's embarrassed that he has a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend."

Summer thought about that for a minute, swinging her sandaled foot against the metal drawers of the desk, listening to the rhythmic thud, thud, thud it made.

"Seth dated girls," Summer finally said, "for about eight weeks at a time. You're the only person he's ever dated long-term. And he told me about you right away. He didn't mention Alex, even, until she was almost over, and she was the most serious relationship he was in before you. So I don't think he's embarrassed. Do you want to rub my feet?"

"What?"

"Rub my feet," Summer repeated. "Do you want to rub my feet? They're sore from these cheap shoes. When Atwood rubs them, I think better."

Luke looked at her. He didn't look as if he were even considering the idea. Well, it had been worth a try. Her feet really did hurt. And she really did think better when they were rubbed.

"I'll try to get by with just your usual thought process," he said, swirling his hand for her to continue.

Summer pondered Seth's behavior for the last month. He had definitely been different lately, Luke was right there, but she was pretty sure Seth wouldn't – couldn't – be embarrassed by Luke's presence in his life.

"He couldn't be embarrassed by you," Summer said, following that logic train to its terminal. "Ergo, he must be embarrassed by his mom and dad."

"Why?" Luke said. "I've always known his dad is a drunk and his mom is in jail."

"That, Mr. Sensitive, might be why he doesn't want to talk about it with you," Summer concluded.

She kicked off her peach sandals. Stupid shoes. Why had she ever bought them? Just because a shoe was on sale didn't mean she had to take it home with her, she lectured herself. Even if it did match her outfit perfectly. Oh, well. She pulled one foot up in her lap to rub it. Finally, all those yoga classes – well, both of those yoga classes – were paying off. The foot was a tight fit, but she made it work.

Summer stuck her own thumbs in her arch and rolled her head around, listening to the crackle of the vertebrae. Why was it that the neck bone was connected to the foot bone? Why didn't the song about the bones talk about that particular connection?

"Yoo hoo," Luke said. "Earth to Summer."

Summer opened her eyes and looked at Luke. He might have wanted her to look at his face, but all she could see was his ugly jacket.

"Did you buy that tweed because that's what professors wear, or did you become a professor so you could wear tweed?" Summer said. "I mean, elbow patches are so retro."

"I like it," Luke said impatiently. "Now let's talk about Seth some more. If that's all right with you."

"Oh, sure," Summer said. "You go ahead and talk."

"But will you listen?"

A harder question. Summer thought about it for a minute and then dropped her foot out of her lap, swinging it back against Luke's desk.

"All right," she said. "I'm paying attention. Talk."

"What did you mean when you said 'that might be why he doesn't want to talk about it,'" Luke said.

Summer hadn't noticed before, but Luke's eyes were almost as blue as At – Ryan's! – eyes. He was sort of cute, in fact. Except for being Seth's boyfriend, of course.

"I mean," Summer said, "that Seth has always been the rich kid. Now he's not. He's always been the kid of the most influential woman in Newport and a successful lawyer and the grandkid of the most influential man in Newport. He worked for the most high-profile company in Newport. Even though he didn't really like being that guy, he was used to being that guy and now he isn't that guy any more.

"He's the guy who manages the Bait Shop whose boyfriend makes lots more money than he does and he might be ever so slightly embarrassed to introduce his parents – who are now losers – to that successful boyfriend. But you'd have to ask him to be certain. Are you sure you don't want to rub my foot?"

She stuck her tender foot in Luke's lap. He scowled at her and took the foot in his hands. He rubbed enthusiastically but without skill.

"You know," Summer advised him, "if you could rub feet as well as Atwood does, you would never have to worry about your boyfriend leaving you."

"That's not what I hear," Luke said. "Atwood worries about it all the time."

"So a little birdie told me," Summer said, "but I'm here to make things better. I brought a surprise picnic. And we're going to have a talk."

"Oh," Luke said. "Does he know you're coming?"

"No, that's why it's a surprise," Summer said tartly. "I'm going to show up as soon as his class is over and kidnap him. Hand me my shoes, would you?"

Luke bent over to gather up the sandals. He looked at the label.

"How much did you pay for these?"

"Just never you mind," Summer said. She stuffed her toes back inside the shoes and jumped down off the desk. "Do I look OK? Seductive? Sexy? Not too slutty?"

"Cute," Luke assessed her peach mini ensemble. "Not too slutty. If you don't fall out of that top."

Summer checked her cleavage. Oh, he was just teasing. She shook her head at him as he walked her to the door.

"I'll think about what you said," Luke said.

Summer tromped down the hall and back out the door toward the math building. She checked the building key against the class schedule she had filched from Ryan's – Ryan's! – pickup floor.

Summer started walking in the right direction. She squirmed a bit then straightened herself. Her new peach lingerie had some itchy lace on it, but at least she knew she looked good. Confidence in clothing leads to confidence in demeanor; confidence in demeanor leads to confidence in carriage, she recited to herself, just in time to feel a heel snap.

Summer barely caught herself against the wall and barely refrained from cursing out loud. So much for smooth, confident carriage. She leaned instead against the smooth, broad bricks and calculated the damage to her cute outfit, listening without thinking to the voices inside the room.

"When are you coming to visit?" a woman's voice said.

"Soon, I promise," a man's voice said.

Summer looked up from the broken shoe in her hand. That voice sounded familiar.

"Tu nina te quiere," the woman said.

"Your daughter misses you," Summer translated in her head.

"I miss her," Ryan's voice said.

At least, Summer thought it was Ryan's voice. She didn't know why he'd be talking about a daughter, though. She limped around the corner.

It was Ryan all right. And Theresa. They were alone in the room, no other students. Her hand was on his cheek. Their bodies were only inches apart. Suddenly, everything made dreadful sense.

"Your daughter?" Summer said. "You have a daughter? With her?"

Atwood stared at her in horror, then turned his blue eyes to Theresa for help, which didn't make Summer any happier.

Summer waited for Atwood to come up with something to say in his defense, anything. She wanted him to deny it, and her waiting fell into a long, long silence. Atwood's blond head dropped as he looked at the ground in guilt. She wanted to hear him say she was wrong or to scream at her or to laugh but all she heard was her own harsh breath. She gulped in air and opened her mouth.

"Summer, it's not like that," Theresa said.

"I'm not speaking to you," Summer said. "I'm talking to my boyfriend."

She thought a second about maintaining her dignity, but then abandoned the effort.

"My ex-boyfriend, you sleazy, man-stealing biddy."

"Who are you calling a biddy, you slumming tramp?" Theresa said aggressively.

Summer started to scream back again, but she realized that the tears were blocking her throat. She couldn't get words out. She snuffled once. Atwood still hadn't spoken.

Summer turned and limped away on her broken heel.


	17. Chapter 17

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

A/N: This is the chapter where things start to get particularly R-rated, so some of you need to bail now. Thanks!

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Chapter 17

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Summer sat in the middle of her four-poster bed, surrounded by fluffy peach pillows and three boxes' worth of used tissues. It didn't matter. They hadn't helped. She was still crying, over a useless man of all things. A two-timing skank of a man. Who had broken her heart.

Again.

Because she was stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Really stupid. Like Paris Hilton carrying around a stupid little dog in a stupid little pink case stupid. Like reality show contestant stupid. Like answering Nigerian scam e-mail stupid. That's how stupid Summer was. She was going to show up on the front of "America's Stupidest People." Of course, she was too stupid to know whether that magazine really existed, but if it did, she was stupid enough to be the cover girl for it.

She grabbed another tissue and honked again. She certainly hadn't cried this much when Zach had left. Of course, she had been the one to tell Zach to hit the road, but Summer still thought a divorce should account for more tears than a simple breakup.

For the second time.

For the second dumping.

Summer had never let anybody have a second try at breaking her heart. Most people didn't get one chance, and she couldn't figure out why Atwood had been the exception. Love certainly wasn't an adequate excuse.

Just because she did love that sorry excuse for a boyfriend. For an ex-boyfriend. With beautiful blue eyes she could drown in. With a neck just made for nibbling. With broad shoulders and strong arms to hold her when she fell.

Not that he had been there to catch her when she really fell, had he?

The telephone interrupted her paean of self-pity. The machine was full of calls from Luke and Seth and Theresa and that no-good rat Atwood. Summer listened to her outgoing message and then the announcement that the mailbox was full. She didn't care. She dropped her used tissue, reached for another celery stick and dipped it into the Cherries Garcia ice cream carton between her crossed legs.

Summer had made just two phone calls since -- well, since she learned the truth. First, she had called Martinez Landscaping and left a message to the effect that she no longer required any landscaping services. It had been a satisfying, strongly worded phone call. Then she had called in sick to work. That had been two days ago, and she was going to have to buck up and return soon. At least Summer was trapped in her house because she wanted to be, not because she couldn't get out, not like poor Mrs. Cohen.

She thought about poor Mrs. Cohen, stuck in a prison cell with none of the basics of life, including ice cream. Summer hadn't expected Mrs. Cohen to look so – stripped. Before prison, Mrs. Cohen had always looked perfect – not trendy, but sophisticated. In the slammer, without makeup or hair products, Mrs. Cohen's face had been dry and worn with creases, her hair limp and showing gray, not gold, above the blue jumpsuit. Mrs. Cohen had accepted Summer's offering of Kiehl's Cucumber Moisturizing Lotion quietly, with a small smile, before she turned all her attention to Seth. She hadn't even acted like she hated Summer, the way she used to do.

Summer hadn't liked seeing Seth that vulnerable. It had been bad enough with his dad, but at least then Seth had been able to hold back the tears. Well, hold them back a little. He hadn't been able to stem the tide when faced with his mother looking so – old.

Mrs. Cohen hadn't cried, not even when Seth did, until Seth brought up Mr. Cohen and how he believed in her and wanted to help her get out of prison. Even then, Mrs. Cohen kept trying to stifle the tears, ducking her head and wiping her eyes with her jumpsuit sleeve. When the other inmates kept looking over at them was when Summer finally realized that Mrs. Cohen couldn't afford to look weak. She had probably been an instant target, even in this softer country club prison environment, with her delicate face and high-profile case. Mrs. Cohen must have toughened up. When she figured it out, Summer started sniffling loudly herself, so that anyone looking at them would think it was just Summer crying, not Mrs. Cohen.

Mrs. Cohen had been able to produce a name – some guy named Lindsay – for Mr. Cohen to start tracking down. This Lindsay had gotten checks from The Newport Group for several years, but Mrs. Cohen didn't know anything else about him. She didn't think they would find the guy before her prison term was up, but she said it was OK for Mr. Cohen to start looking. And she had given Seth directions to a bunch of documents that she didn't think the prosecuting attorneys knew about, papers that might provide clues about where to find this Lindsay character. That had been a hope for Seth to take home from the hard day and a chore to keep Mr. Cohen out of trouble and off the bottle. She hoped they all got what they needed from the search.

It didn't matter to her any more. Even if it had mattered once.

She was done with them. And she was going to get over them. She was going to get over Seth's lies and Atwood's lies and Luke's lies and everyone else's. It was about time for her to be a grownup. People got lied to and dumped by their boyfriends all the time on "The Valley," and you didn't see them sitting in piles of used tissue. No, sirree, they got up and got on about their business.

They made choices and moved on. They didn't wallow.

Summer took another bite of ice cream on celery. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but after two quarts, it was beginning not to taste quite as delicious.

Summer took another bite to be sure. Yeah, she was done wallowing. She heaved herself out of bed and grabbed the carton and the bag of celery sticks. She carried them to the kitchen, and pitched them on top of the fateful peach ensemble in the trash. She watched the ice cream dribble down on top of the broken-heeled shoe, which was on top of some apples that had ruined when she started bingeing on ice cream. It seemed symbolic of her entire doomed relationship with Atwood. She wasn't sure exactly how it was symbolic, but she was certain it had to be.

At any rate, it was time to take out the trash before it got any nastier and before she had to look at that horrible bad-luck outfit any more. She was going to make choices before the choices made her. Or something like that.

Summer dragged herself back into her bedroom and changed into her rattiest shorts and a sorority tank top. She thought about her freshman pledge never to wear her sorority shirt unless she looked her best. She thought about her hair, unwashed for three days, and her makeup, unmade for two. Screw it, she thought. Her pledge sisters and her dad who had made her pledge and her mom who left her as a legacy to that chapter and Seth and Luke and Atwood and especially Theresa could all kiss her giant swinging donkey dick! So there!

Summer slapped one hand over her mouth, as horrified as if she had actually said what she had been thinking. She giggled a little then sighed – and didn't change clothes. She put on her garden flip-flops and went to the kitchen to pick up the trash. She walked out the door to the patio, smelly bag hanging from a plastic string in her hands, and ran into Seth's bony chest.

She didn't know what to say, so she immediately went on the attack.

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," Seth said.

"What a surprise," Summer said. "I'm here at my own house, minding my own business. Why aren't you minding yours?"

"I was worried about you," Seth said. "You didn't answer the phone."

"No need to be worried," she told him. "Just because you told me Atwood wanted to marry me when he really just wanted to get back to his daughter. No need to worry. Nothing for you to worry about at all. Just go on about your business."

She tried to march past him, but he moved in front of her.

"I just want to talk to you," he said.

"And I don't want to talk to you," she said, moving again. When his body got in front of hers again, she handed him the trash. "Here. Make yourself useful."

She turned on her heel and marched back into the house, locking the door behind her. Ha! That would show him.

She peeked through the kitchen window curtains as he made a disgusted face. He must have caught a whiff of her spoiled apples. Too bad she hadn't thought to throw one at him. That really would have sent him out the garden gate.

She watched as Seth trudged out to dump her trash in the alley. He came back in empty-handed but with resolution written on his face. Well, he could just resolute himself all he wanted. She was going back to bed.

She toed off her flip-flops beside the four-poster and climbed in underneath the covers, scattering used tissues like a rain of dying swans. That's how she felt. Like a dying, snot-filled swan. She pulled the covers up to her shoulders and snuggled in, feeling the dark warmth surround her like a soft coffin.

She wasn't prepared for her warm safety to be ripped away from her. Seth stood over her in the bed, rumpled hair looking even more rumpled with his agitation. It flopped around in distress as he grabbed the rest of her blankets and pulled.

"Time to get up, Princess," he said.

"No!" Summer scrambled to retrieve her covers. They were soft and downy and peachy and warm and safe. Seth couldn't have them; she needed them. Her arms flailed as she reached for the disappearing blankets. Her desperate grab for the safety of her blankets and Seth's strong yank of them at the same time pulled Summer to the floor, her bottom colliding with unyielding hardwoods that had seemed like a good idea when she ordered them.

Feelings hurting, emotions hurting and backside hurting, Summer started to cry again. She thought she had been wrung dry, but apparently not. She wondered if she would ever be done crying.

She sobbed harder as she felt Seth's body settle beside hers and his long arm reach around her shoulders.

"There, there," he said, patting her on the arm awkwardly.

She hid her wracking face with the tail of her sorority shirt. Seth didn't need to see. He wasn't her friend anymore. He was Atwood's friend. Atwood had taken her love, her dreams and her pride. She had nothing left, no friends, no boyfriend, no family. She had gambled everything on her love for Atwood, and she had lost. She couldn't call anyone. She was alone in this big house, even with Seth sitting right beside her.

He pulled her face toward him and she felt herself leaning into his chest. The tears fell into his shirt and her arms went around his neck as she cried in his embrace.

Her face was red and hot and itchy when she finally stopped crying. Gross. She wiped the edge of her nose with the sides of her fingers and looked around for an unused tissue in an attempt to regain her dignity.

"Here," Seth said, handing her one.

"Thank you," Summer said politely. "Thank you for stopping by this afternoon. I appreciate your concern. I'll be fine now."

She blew into the tissue.

"That's nice," Seth said. "Are you ready to go?"

"Go?" Summer looked up from dabbing her face with the unused corners of the tissue.

"Yeah, I need your help," Seth said.

"I'm not really dressed for that," she said, carefully not looking at the giant wet stain on his shirt.

"You don't have to dress up," Seth said. "I'm about to make a real estate investment, and I need a financial professional to give me some advice."

"Seth, I only worked at that mortgage bank for a few months," Summer said. "I'm not really the best person to ask."

"You're the only person I know who can come look at this property and give me an unbiased estimate right this minute," he said.

Summer totted up the emotional support she owed him for letting him snot all over his chest and nodded.

"Just let me wash my face," she said, turning toward the bathroom.

"Make it fast," Seth said. "And don't bother to change clothes. I'm kind of on a schedule. It's a limited-time deal."

Summer came out of the bathroom, scrubbing at her face with a wet peach-colored cloth.

"Seth, you know I'm against limited-time offers on general principle," she said. "It's too risky. If the owner wants to sell that badly, then let the deal go."

"I'm hoping you'll make an exception once you see the property," Seth said. "At least come take a look?"

Summer folded the washcloth. She sighed and dropped it in the sink, looking around at her disaster of a room. She shook her head. Her whole life needed a scrub job. She was sick of living in peach and being fluffy. She was stronger than that.

"Let's go," she said, picking up her cell phone and her keys. She could call her housekeeper for an emergency cleanup while they drove. One step at a time to a changed life.


	18. Chapter 18

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

Chapter 18

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Thanks to all those who have stuck with me this far.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Summer had decided to move on with her life. She wasn't sure that riding around in a car with Seth qualified as moving on, but it was moving forward. Sort of. At a completely pokey rate of speed that almost qualified as driving backward.

"Where are we going?" she said. Maybe the details of Seth's prospective investment would take her mind off his complete inability to drive faster than snails could slither.

"I'm looking at a house in a modest neighborhood," Seth said without taking his eyes off the road. "It's a two-bedroom on the edge of an area that's undergoing gentrification. It's in rough shape, but I think with the right renovations, I can turn it over for a little profit."

"That's a risky, high-involvement investment," Summer said. "Are you really prepared to be that hands-on? I mean, you might even have to hold a hammer or a power tool or something for a successful flip. No offense, but that doesn't seem like you."

"Well, I have an experienced carpenter on retainer to do most of the work, and if things get really bad, I'll make Luke help," Seth said.

Summer looked across at him skeptically.

"Do you think he will? He was a little upset with you last time we talked," she said.

"We've had a conversation about that conversation," Seth said. "Upshot is I'm going to tell my dad next time I see him that I have a Big Gay Boyfriend. If he doesn't like it, well, I got along fine without a dad for a long time. I can do it again, as long as I have Luke. Thanks for taking my side, by the way, but I wish you had told me I was being a dumb-butt about Luke. That's what friends are for."

"I kind of forgot about your business after I saw … what I saw," Summer admitted. She shook her head to return to a less sensitive topic. "How are you planning to finance? We're going to need to move some of your portfolio into less risky stocks if you really go ahead with this. Your portfolio needs a healthy balance, and direct involvement with real estate would tip you over from where I'm comfortable with the account going. Of course, it's not my retirement we're talking about."

"I'm hoping to attract a co-investor," Seth said.

"That would certainly spread the risk," Summer said.

"Here are my calculations," Seth said, handing her a folder. "I've got it figured with and without a co-investor. I just want you to take a look at the property and see whether I'm nuts."

Normally, Summer wouldn't have let that straight line go, but she started thumbing through the pages, letting the cold hard numbers talk to her. Dads and boyfriends might come and go, but two and two always added up to four, and a 7.9 percent financing offer always had to be checked for strings. Those were certainties you could set your clock by. Those were the sorts of things Summer liked in her life. Not idiot men. That's the reason she had changed her college major to finance and got a job with numbers instead of emotions.

She barely noticed the streets getting darker and dirtier as Seth drove his green Prius. Summer always felt peaceful when she was shopping or auditing, and this real estate venture was a chance to do both. Maybe she should think about moving from fashion auditing to real estate auditing. She thought about losing her clothing discount and shuddered. No, real estate would have to remain a hobby.

"I see you have your carpenter on for a reduced rate," Summer finally said. "That won't work. If he's worth the price, the pay him the going rate. If not, find someone else."

"This guy is willing to put in some sweat equity for a part of the action," Seth said. "It's there behind Tab C. Plus, he has four years of experience in building houses and three in apartment maintenance."

Summer turned to that page in the loose-leaf notebook, perusing Seth's numbers. He had done a pretty good job of roughing out his proposal, but she could improve it, and a more professional presentation would extend its clout.

"No, I still don't like the reduced rate," she said. "Pay the guy in full, if he's worth the money. It looks better for your tax purposes. If he then chooses to invest, that's his tax problem, not yours.

"We need to set up a limited corporation to make it easier for you to include or exclude other investors, but that shouldn't be a big deal. Do you have a lawyer who can do it for you?"

"Um," Seth said. He sneaked a glance at her.

"Oh, no," Summer realized in horror. "It's Zach, isn't it? There's no one else you would take your eyes off the road for."

"Yeah, it's Zach," Seth said defensively. "I'm sorry. I don't know anybody else I can use on short notice."

"What about your dad?" Summer said. "He's a lawyer, isn't he?"

"Yeah, about that," Seth said. "I'm just not that eager to commingle my business deals with my dad yet. I know I said I forgive him, and I do, but I'm not going to forget, either."

That sounded sensible to Summer. She let the subject drop, and Seth didn't pick it back up.  
"Here's the neighborhood," Seth said, slowing as he turned a corner.

"Looks a little …" Summer couldn't think of the right word.

"Horrible?" Seth offered.

"Yeah," Summer said. "Your financial adviser isn't impressed right now."

"OK," Seth said. "You've seen the ugly. Now see the good."

He turned another corner to an apparent dirt pit with some yellow cranes looming over like giant carrion birds. Summer thought that was a pretty apt metaphor for this dead neighborhood. Seth pulled the car over and put it in park. He pointed.

"That high-rise apartment complex will be finished in six months," Seth said. "It's on the new transit line, and when it's finished, it will have giant signs that say, 'If you lived here, you'd be home now' and stupid things like that. You'll notice that across the street, they are pouring concrete for the new light-rail station park-and-ride lot. This neighborhood is about to get hot.

"Two blocks from here is a nice elementary school. It's not new, but it's consistently in the top 20 schools in this district. My proposed flip is two blocks in the other direction."

Seth quit waving his arms and sat quietly, letting Summer think. She appreciated the lack of noise as she ran through the possibilities in her head.

"OK, I'm ready now," she said finally. "This place could tip either way. In a year, that high-rise could be a crack emporium or it could be the hot new neighborhood for up-and-comers. I need to see the actual streets from here to your house to see what prospective buyers are going to be seeing. Drive slowly."

She thought again.

"Never mind," she said. "Drive your usual speed."

Seth stuck out his tongue at her and put the car back in drive. As he drove slowly through the streets, Summer peered out the window for clues like children's bikes, neat lawns or nosy neighbors.

Seth stopped in front of a small bungalow with overgrown trees lining a cracked driveway.

"It goes without saying that I'm going to count on you for interior advice," Seth said. "I mean, it's you or Luke, and have you seen what Luke's wearing these days?"

Summer recalled the tweed jacket she had seen last and shuddered.

"Of course I'll help, even if you ignore my excellent advice," she said. "But what about your mom? I seem to recall she has excellent taste."

"I'm not sure when Mom's going to be out," Seth said. "And …"

He stopped and sighed.

"Did you see her?" he said. "I'm not sure she's going to be up for anything more stressful than picking out clean clothes when she's out. And Dad's not making loads of progress on finding that Lindsay guy. I'm afraid I'm going to have to talk to Grandpa to find out more. Which means another trip to The Big House. Which I'm not prepared for. So we're going to keep on talking about my business and not my family's right now, if you don't mind."

OK. Summer could go along with Seth's denial. It was one of her favorite coping techniques, too.

"What kind of turnaround time are you looking at?" she said, turning her attention back to Seth's proposed flip house, where prospects for improvements popped in her eyes. She could see two windows opening out onto the front yard, crowded by a juniper tree that needed to come out so those windows could let some light in on the family, and the yard needed a fence around it for a little dog to live in. Those were two fast, relatively inexpensive fixes that would improve the curb appeal and upgrade the house value. Seth could do that much in just a month.

"I think I can carry the place for three months," Seth said. "After that, it gets trickier."

"Do you have a pen?" Summer said. She went on without waiting for him, pushing open the car door. "Start a list. 1. Yank butt-ugly juniper tree. 2. Fix cracked driveway. 3. Add fence around front yard and shutters for front windows."

She continued ticking off improvements as she tromped up the driveway, Seth on her heels.

"Most of these are on the list already," Seth said, consulting a piece of paper as he stuck a key in the front door. "My construction guy thought of them, too."

"Really?" Summer grabbed the list from Seth and started going down it. "What's this about ripping out a wall?"

"Do you mind?" Seth took the list back. "It's just part of a wall. It's to create a breakfast bar and open out the space between the kitchen and the living room. And I'd really rather you see the space before you see the list."

He opened the door with a small bow.

"If Madame Adviser would consent to enter?"

She did.

Her first impression was that the dark blue shag carpet was nastier than anything she had ever seen in her life. Her second impression was that Atwood was standing on it, so nothing else mattered.

"Summer, meet my carpenter," Seth said.


	19. Chapter 19

"Seasons Change"

By Sister Rose

Rated R

Chapter 19

The characters of "The O.C." belong to Fox, and no infringement of those rights is intended in this fictional work.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She turned around to slap Seth, and he caught her arm.

"Temper, temper," he chided.

Summer bit her lower lip and lowered her eyes, darting them around to find an exit. The only one she could see was the door she had just walked through, and Seth was standing in front of it. Her breathing shortened and she felt her heart pumping harder in her throat.

Atwood spoke.

"Seth, what are you doing?" Atwood said.

She peeked up at him. He hadn't been sleeping. Good! Except it wasn't good. She didn't like to see Atwood looking tired. He worked too hard as it was. He didn't need more stress in his life. Not that she cared! No, it was none of her business now.

"I believe you and Summer have some things to talk about before the three of us can get on with being business partners," Seth explained. "I'm not having my friends be mad at each other. It's bad for business."

"What business is that, Dead Man?" Summer demanded. She wanted to scream at him, but it would embarrass her in front of Atwood.

"Our home renovation business," Seth said calmly, just as if he were speaking sensibly instead of spouting gibberish that should land him behind padded walls. "You for business and interior decorating, Ryan for construction and landscaping and me for ideas and financing. Together, we'll be unstoppable."

Summer opened and closed her mouth, no words in them. It wasn't that it was a bad idea, exactly, it just wasn't an idea she had thought of, and it was definitely an idea that would require her to be in Atwood's presence for more than 30 seconds.

"Summer," Seth said, looking down at her, long hair flopping in his eyes. "I know this probably seems like a dirty trick, but I swear I mean the best for you and Ryan. When you didn't return my 53rd message, I called Ryan, and he told me what happened. He didn't know I was bringing you here today, so this is just as big a surprise for him.

"Anyway, no one is leaving until everything is all straightened out. Let's all …"

Atwood interrupted.

"There's nothing that needs to be straightened out, Seth," he said brusquely. "Summer will be more comfortable if you use a different carpenter."

He rooted in his pants pocket and came up with a set of jumbled keys. He pulled one off and put it in the dust on a window sill by the door, not looking at either one of them.

"Good luck with your project."

He turned to go, eyes down, blond head slumped. Just like in the old days.

Summer couldn't think of a single time when Atwood had ever interrupted Seth. Probably still thought of him as the son of the boss, just like he probably still thought of her as the untouchable daughter of the boss.

Atwood had enough confidence to interrupt Seth but not enough confidence to believe that she could believe him or to believe that Seth would choose him over her. He was willing to walk away through the shoots of sunlight streaming the dirty windows, away from the possibilities and away from a future that could take him out of his dead-end life.

The idea made her sad. In four years, nothing had really changed. They were all still stuck in a place that they couldn't seem to get out of, in habits that they couldn't kick. If things were going to change, they needed to change now, not later.

Well, she was strong enough to believe enough for her and for Atwood – her Ryan. She was Summer Roberts, and she didn't let her man walk away from her.

"Stop," she called out, before she was aware that she was going to say anything at all.

Ryan stopped, but he didn't turn around.

"Seth's right, Ryan," she said. "We have to talk. I'm sorry I yelled. I was just surprised."

He turned around slowly, caution showing in the tightness of his jaw and lips.

Summer turned to Seth.

"Thanks," she said. "Now get out. I have to talk to Ryan alone."

"No way," Seth said. "You'll screw it up."

"No, I won't," Summer said, stung. "I promise to call if I need help, OK? Just go sit in the car."

Seth looked at her for a long time, then took her head between his long hands.

"Don't screw up," he warned her, kissing her on the forehead. He left.

Summer barely noticed. She had turned back to Ryan, who was standing with his arms crossed over his chest. His broad, strong chest that she wanted to lay her head on and repose on in comfort for all her days, secure in the knowledge that she finally had a man she could rely on to protect her and defend her with all the strength in his body and all the strength in his big, big heart.

Wow. Poetry.

Well, if that poetic stuff was going to happen, the two of them needed to have a long, serious talk. Right now.

"I love you, Ryan," she said. "Why didn't you tell me about your daughter?"

His deep blue eyes X-rayed her heart like a living MRI machine, and she stood still for the procedure, waiting for the doctor's judgment. When Summer saw that the decision had been made, she sunk down onto the stained, grimy blue carpet and leaned her back against the wall by the door. Ryan sat down beside her, their arms touching, their eyes looking into the blankness of the empty house. Ryan's words echoed slightly and he spoke quietly.

"I don't have a daughter," he finally said, slowly. "Theresa has a daughter, but I was in juvie when she …"

Ryan waved a hand and grimaced in embarrassment.

"I'm not the father. Anyway, when I went back to Chino, I moved in with Theresa's mom and slept on the couch for a couple of months and started getting to know Edwina. I moved out, but when Arturo was arrested for selling dope, I moved back in to take care of the house and help with the bills and all.

"I owed them that much, you know?" Ryan turned his head to check Summer's reaction. She nodded. He turned his head back out into the empty room, but Summer kept her eyes on his profile, watching his lips move.

"Anyway, when I moved back in, Edwina needed someone and she started liking me," he went on. "I started calling her my girl, and she started calling me her Tio Ryan, and that's what you heard Theresa talking about. She was telling me that my girl wants to see me."

Summer's mouth went into an "oh" shape, but no sound came out. Theresa's words floated into her head, "Tu nina te quiere." That meant your girl wants you, not your daughter misses you. She was an idiot. A gringo, no-Spanish-speaking idiot. And she should confess that right now. She looked away.

"I'm sorry, Ryan," she said, a hitch in her throat. "I didn't understand what she said. And then I saw her with her hands all over you, and I thought you were sleeping with her. I just got jealous and scared and wasn't thinking about how you wouldn't cheat on me. You're not like that."

"I know you didn't understand everything. I started to tell you the truth, and then I realized that it was a good reason for you to dump me, and I thought you'd been looking for one."

He paused. Summer listened to the long silence before his gulping "Do you really love me?"

Summer nodded. She still couldn't look at him.

"I've never said it to a woman," Ryan said. "But I … love you, and I want you to be happy. I don't … I thought you were just bored and I was an old habit."

Summer shook her head, unsure what to say.

"I – Ryan, what do you need to hear from me to be sure that I'm in this for the long haul?" she said forlornly. "I want to say the right thing."

Ryan touched her arm.

"Say my name again," he said. "That was the right thing."

Summer brushed away tears. When had they started falling? Ryan's arms crept around her, and he dropped a light kiss on the nape of her neck, just under her hair.

He worked his way up to her ear along her hairline, dropping gentle kisses like raindrops. He nibbled her lobe, teasing it between his teeth.

Summer turned around to face him, stripping off her sorority shirt in one move and diving toward the hollow in his neck, the warm spot where she could feel his pulse and taste his sweaty skin.

"Ryan," she said.

She pushed his work shirt off his shoulders, and he shrugged out of it, licking the underside of her chin. He hadn't shaved, and his stubble raked against her skin as she breathed in the familiar-unfamiliar-Ryan smell of a working man who loved her.

"Ryan," she said.

She grabbed the bottom of his undershirt, bunching the soft cotton in her fists, and pulled it over his head and behind his back, trapping his hands. She fell backward onto the nastiest carpet she had ever seen in her life and let its dirty shag scratch her naked skin.

"Ryan," she said.

He followed her down to the carpet, his hands still behind his back. His mouth took her bra strap from her shoulder down her arm and he licked from her underarm across the clavicle bone to her throat.

"Ryan," she said.

He copied the move on the other bra strap, then started tugging on the cups, eventually finding his way to the center, where he suckled as if seeking comfort from the world.

"Ryan," she said.

She released the undershirt, and he threw it across the room. Her hands were empty, so she grabbed his hips and pulled him closer, feeling the tightness in his jeans. He moved his mouth to her lower lip, sucking it in until he had to stop to breathe. She lifted her chin as he started nuzzling down the center of her throat. The room smelled like mold and dirt and she could see cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. Ryan's lips reached her breastbone and she sat up, pushing him away.

"Ryan," she said. "Ryan."

Her hands went to his jeans and started unbuttoning. His hands joined hers, finishing the job. He pushed his pants down around his boots and reached for her waist, pushing her shorts and panties down to her ankles. She kicked them aside along with his sandals and touched his shoulder, forcing him back to the carpet.

"Ryan," she said.

Summer felt her knees dig into the horrible shag as she placed her body on top of Ryan's, laying her head in the center of his warm chest. She licked for a moment, tasting salt and skin, then found an urgent rhythm. She didn't care that she was dirtier than she had ever been or that crumbling drywall was drifting through the airless room onto her back or even that Seth was just outside in the car, waiting for her. She cared about only one thing.

"Ryan," she said. "Ryan."


End file.
